Brilliance: A Story Of Romance & Fairies
by LovelyPriestess
Summary: AU, 1911 The few days on the RMS Olympic were not only spent with social pleasure, but also romance, desire, and the need to escape from a suffocating society. New Flames ignite, passion burns, and midnight is illuminated by love and absinthe...VERY GOOD
1. Miserable Beings Only Weep

**Brilliance: A Story Of Romance & Fairies **

**Summary: **_(AU)(1911)_ _The few days on the RMS Olympic were not only spent with social pleasure, but also romance, desire, and the need to escape from a suffocating society. Flames ignite, passion burns, and midnight is illuminated by love and __absinthe__… all sailing into disaster. _(Romance/Drama/Friendship/Tragedy)(I don't own Twilight or Titanic or Pride & Prejudice, for which this story was inspired by)

* * *

**Chapter I:**

Miserable Beings Only Weep

* * *

_Sweet is sleep to me and even more to be  
of stone, while the wrong and shame endure.  
To be without sight or sense is a most happy  
change for me, therefore do not rouse me.  
Hush! Speak low._

* * *

**Isabella Higginbotham: June 10, 1911—Day One **

Isabella Higginbotham, exhaling out the nasty, fresh paint fumes, stumbled into her first class suite; all the while trying to dislodge the growing sickness bulging in her stomach. As the minutes ticked by, her mother's progressive chatter never ceased, but luckily, Isabella's fiancé was the one to drown in the insufferable woman's gossip and high-pitched voice; the woman, her mother, was still extraordinary, despite Isabella's irritated thoughts at the moment. She gazed at the room, mystified by the sheer, gleaming polished mahogany wood; all furniture and curves finely crafted and molded together with a pricey golden cover. A hearth, outlined by this gold, resided in the center of the main wall; lounge sofas with brilliant patterns lie scattered around.

"Oh, my," her mother, Renee, gasped, truly astounded. Isabella, ignoring this, sauntered toward a candleholder pinned to the wall; her slender fingers smoothing along its rusted gold and the dull wax. Flecks of the peach wax—shaven off from the hardness of her gloved hand—fell onto the crimson carpet. Isabella, now _truly_ bored, cocked her head and began roaming throughout some of the other rooms attached with this one; her body finally wandering into the room she'd be occupying for the rest of the tiresome journey.

"And just take a gander at Isabella's room," Renee gushed, beaming proudly; their new English maid, Petunia, cringed at the blatant American accent lacing through Renee's words. Why, in this beautiful earth, would an American be going to England? And why would she be traveling there so spontaneously, with her sixteen-year-old daughter? The story was simple yet crisp—bitter and etched into Isabella's mind.

Phillip Dwyer, the marvelous, wealthy millionaire, had abandoned his wife—after sixteen long years together, the discovery that Isabella, "their" dearest daughter… most certainly wasn't _his_ child. Maybe it was the warm chocolate coloring of her orbs, contradicting his emerald irises and Renee's blue ones that tipped him off. Or maybe—just maybe—it was her mother's foolish confession, while in a drunken stupor, that split his heart in half… In the end, Renee was left in a path of pennilessness—with not many ways to support herself or her daughter, especially as Renee was now a whore and Isabella a bastard child.

And as if some savior from a fairytale, Jacob Black came galloping along their path, his smug grin and slick hair winning Renee over; or maybe it was his massive proportion of wealth, retrieved by the family business: non-faux, wolf fur coats. Not wanting to live out her life as a seamstress, working dusk till dawn with only molded, sour bread for supper, Renee spent her many waking hours into persuading Isabella into accepting his marriage offer and becoming his—wealthy, obedient—wife. But Isabella couldn't deny it: she, too, would rather be miserable for life than to be forced to be a laborer woman with nothing but shriveled grapes and burnt pancakes as a day's meal.

The marriage and wedding was set.

"Isabella Higginbotham," Renee's sweet voice cooed from behind, "Soon to be Isabella Black."

With a childish roll of her eyes, Isabella turned around to stare into her mother's eyes. They were a mirror image, except for the obvious eye-color difference—an ivory, heart-shaped face framed by a twirling mess of pale brown curls; pink-stained cheeks and rosy lips; a slender figure with no real muscle, but still attractive. Isabella was a lovely woman.

"Please smile for me," Renee begged feebly, as she cupped Isabella's face in her gloved palms. Behind the proper mask latched onto her mother's beautiful, saddened face, Isabella could see, oh-so-clearly, the strength and nurturing concern the woman maintained and held onto with all ten pretty fingers; never faltering once in her life. It was a miracle that anyone would accept Isabella now that she was discovered as the product of a scandalous affair, and to make both their lives less of a struggle, Isabella would happily oblige to all her mother's wishes now.

A weak, yet sugary smile stretched onto her face, bringing brightness lighting onto Renee's face. "You know how much I care for you, Bella," Renee whispered affectionately, never tearing away her gaze, "And as much as I hate to see you this way, I… I could never watch you slave all day, sewing and working nonstop. I don't want that to become your life." A flicker of hope flashed across her azure orbs. "And I'm sure that Jacob isn't that tough a man—please, Bella, let him into your heart… it will make everything less horrible."

"I'll try," Isabella murmured, mustering her voice, for it had caught in her throat.

"That's my girl," Renee tenderly proclaimed, her traditional sunny smile remaining on her face. Her hands grasped Isabella's as she ordered cheerfully, "Let us see to the rest of the ship and find Jacob. That boy is always off somewhere, like some wolf, scurrying about." She towed Isabella along as they left the rooms and entered the hallway; an excellent, marvelous area lined with paintings and tables; shiny mahogany and decorative wallpaper. As seconds ticked by, they finally exited the various winding hallways and found themselves in a brightly lit area, the view of the crystal ocean sparkling from way down below. Isabella only made eye contact with the tranquil sea; opting to not stare into the wretched faces of the many First-Class men and women, each gossiping and snickering; judging and spitting out bratty complaints that stabbed into Isabella's head, like an annoying fly buzzing about the room, never-ending its irritating hum considered part of its nature—just like the fly, annoying buzzing was the nature of the men and women of her "class".

Before she could process what was happening, Renee had stumbled into someone, causing Isabella to ram into her mother's back. A group of women, each around Isabella's age, sniggered loudly, but their eyes gradually widened at the person whom her mother had staggered into. Isabella, now curious, gazed past Renee, and found her mouth nearly hitting the floor; her heart pounding uncontrollably and her breath hitching.

"Oh, I-I'm so s-sorry…"

Renee was at loss for words, just as much as Isabella.

The two men were, without a doubt, the finest sculpted human beings ever to land on earth; descending from the heavens as if they were angels. The man, presumably the father—his eyes old and wise—possessed glittering, flawless ivory flesh, marble, and a body only fit for a God; his blonde tresses, unlike most other men, was not slicked back or placed neatly, but nearly—although only slightly—messy: hanging limply in front of his dark azure eyes. But the younger man, probably his son or other close family member, was even more astonishing in beauty and handsomeness.

He stood tall and brooding, with startling emerald orbs and disheveled bronze tendrils, an unusual color. He stared at her, barely taking in her appearance, before flicking his eyes to the ocean. Isabella stepped beside her mother, wishing for his attention; for his dazzling irises to lock with hers. But alas, the man merely stared away. The blonde man, however, smiled sweetly.

"It's alright, miss," he said, his voice smooth and perfect, "It's all well. Are you hurt?"

Renee shook her head rapidly. "No, no, no, I'm fine, very much so." Isabella detected that she was putting on airs, attempting to mimic his velvet voice, but with no real accomplishment. "I'm Renee Higginbotham." She reached out her hand, her cheeks painted a smoldering crimson as he extended his hand and gripped hers gently. "This"—she pointed a single finger at Isabella—"is my daughter, Isabella Higginbotham."

"Carlisle Hale."

Renee stared at the jade-eyed man, wishing for him to speak. When no response came, Carlisle jabbed him in the elbow, to which the man sighed and turned, reluctant, to the both of them. His morbid expression frightened Isabella, especially as she drank in his dull, lifeless eyes that held a deep void within them; one she often found within her own eyes. "Edward Cullen."

"How are you related?" Renee inquired curiously—surely there were some family ties?

"He is my fiancée's nephew," Carlisle responded: the word "fiancée" sending a deep scowl carving onto Renee's face.

"Yes," Edward muttered dryly.

Isabella frowned, curious as to why he was so solemn—so dry and sardonic. His voice, although velvet, had a cutting edge to it that sliced through her body; freezing her once warm blood. Exchanging once simple glance with his soon-to-be family member, Edward stalked off, seemingly ignoring the herd of women smiling dreamily to one another; already wishing themselves to be his wife.

"I'm sorry about him," Carlisle apologized, a bit embarrassed.

"No, he was quite…" Renee mused on the right choice of wording. "Deep…"

"More like a _bas_—" Before Isabella could finish her sentence, Renee's long fingers hooked around her upper arm, a death grip, and saying a hasty goodbye to Carlisle, Renee dragged her haughtily down the halls; the sunshine glistening onto their bodies. Isabella rolled her eyes, not at all ashamed at the almost openly insulting Edward Cullen; already, his name was bitter in her mind. He was rude, and she wanted nothing more than to tell him so herself. They entered the open deck, where many First-Class people residing; Isabella marveled at the openness of the air and the fresh scent of the harsh ocean: her waves, at the moment, calm. Renee worked to catch her breath.

"Never openly insult people," Renee finally ordered, her face a deep shade of angry purple, "Never. Don't—"

"Act in such ways, I know," Isabella muttered.

Her mother, now offended, crossed her arms. "If you're going to act like a child, then I'll treat you like one."

"What—?"

And before Isabella could defend herself, Renee had taken her by the ear—a painful sting surging down Isabella's neck—and began dragging her toward the entrance back into the promenade deck; many watched the spectacle: a woman carrying a younger teenager by the ear. Isabella's feet worked to catch up to her mother's quick pace. After several long moments, she sighed loudly and allowed her mother to continue dragging her.

Indeed, her mother wasn't the typical First-Class woman.

* * *

**Edward Cullen**

Edward Cullen sauntered into his room, already agitated. These pompous men and their arrogant aspects on life were a thorn in his side; and the woman, all so attracted to wealth and properness—their voice and opinions ignorant and worthless. Jasper often chided him, saying he was being too harsh, but that was only because the blonde was a sensitive fool to others' emotions. Jasper's sister, Rosalie, was a typical example of the women, except unlike them, she wasn't afraid to have an opinion that wasn't her husband's or the society's. That, initially, gained some of his respect.

But sitting on the plush bed, gazing at the dark jade wall, he found himself lost. The woman, Renee Higginbotham, seemed like a bubbling idiot, with too much brightness and not a lot of intellect, but her daughter, Isabella, was a lovely woman; her rosy cheeks and sweet eyes catching his attention… a little. But no doubt, she'd be exactly like every other women; beautiful on the outside—fluffed and groomed—but on the inside, a mere mechanical woman, not having much to say, for she could never have an opinion or a voice.

It annoyed him greatly: being around these people—people no where near human.

"Mr. Cullen?"

Edward, startled, slid to his feet and swiveled around. Situated near the door was Laura Mallory, one of the family maids; her lips formed into a firm line. Her dark eyes, however, swirled with wicked desire. He grimaced, still revolted by her unrequited feelings and her ability to bring frustration to his heart. She bowed once—ignoring the savageness in his eyes—and took a step closer.

"Miss Hale wishes for your presence in her room in an hour for some talk about something secret." Yes, Rosalie enjoyed speaking to him—throwing out all her opinions because she didn't want to appear as an idiot in front of the public—so, she spoke of her thoughts to him, as a way in confiding in him.

Edward nodded once.

"And Mr. Cullen?" He gazed back up, exasperated. Laura flipped back her white-blonde strands of hair and smiled ferociously. "I had spotted you in conversation with Renee Higginbotham and her daughter. I'm not sure if you know, but Isabella is to be wed to a man named Jacob Black… but what's so scandalous is that she's the daughter of a Third-Class man. This man and Renee had an affair, while Renee was to be courted!" Laura's eyes were as wide as saucers imported from China. "The reason Isabella is marrying Mr. Black is because they want the money so they don't go bankrupt and poor. She's playing with the poor man's feelings. I didn't know they allowed such terrible people on board such a luxurious ship!"

"Well, they _do_," Edward snapped, eyeing her disdainfully. Laura, catching the aggravation in his tone, lowered her head once, grasped the hem of her flowing maid gown, and bolted out of the room. Shuddering back her previous lust-filled gaze, Edward slowly, with faltered steps, ambled over to the smooth-surfaced dresser. His fingers carefully grabbed the picture frame on the dresser: a young woman, age sagging into her features despite her young age, with a child gripped in her slim arms. Heaviness swelled in Edward's throat. It was a photo, so long ago, taken in the year 1894, a few years after his birth. He smiled amusingly at the queer attire hugging his frail, plump body. Now, he only wished for the photo to be in color—how unlikely—so that he could stare into his mother's eyes: a deep green-blue, resembling the serene waves of the ocean. His father often said she had the eyes of the ocean—he called her a siren, because of her beauty and her voice, so soft and motherly.

But all Edward could see was shadowed black and white in the frame. His mother, Elizabeth, had contracted cancer, just a year and a half ago, prompting him, the only remaining of their family, to try everything in his power—his studies included not only music, but medical—to prevent her death. In the end, she died peacefully within her sleep; he was simply glad she didn't have to suffer.

But he also had a family now, after so long.

Esme Cullen was on his family tree—Elizabeth's sister. A few years before Edward was even born, Esme was twenty-four-years-old and already wishing for death because of her abusive husband. However, during the year 1867, Charles (her husband) died of lung infection, and not soon after, Esme, after injuring her leg, was treated by Doctor Carlisle Hale. He thought she was still mourning the death of her husband, and it came to a great deal of shock when one rainy night, she happened upon his doorstep, completely drenched by the rain. Maybe it her white gown, translucent from the tears of rain, that peeked his interest and arousal—or maybe even her flirtatious, drunken state of mind—, but Esme became pregnant not soon after, and of course… labeled as a whore. People gossiped about how she should belong in a brothel, but it never mattered—Esme and Carlisle were in love, not married yet (the reason for moving back to England), and had two adoring children. A perfect ending for everyone except him!

Rosalie and Jasper Hale were born on October 27, year 1892—twins. Both possessed stunning blonde tresses, milky white skin, and deep azure eyes that mirrored Carlisle's. Rosalie was an extreme beauty and Jasper very handsome. It was a shame that Rosalie grew up to be influenced so heavily by the society around her: her concerns only being centered on the monthly fashion update and how people thought of her. She enjoyed having the attention, and her beauty aided that. Jasper, although, shied away from everything—finding the world easier and best for him if he completely avoided most people; he was much like Edward, but Edward didn't hide his arrogance.

No, he didn't care what people thought of him, unlike his two ambitious, passionate cousins.

And Isabella was now a part of the worst side of his mind—the side he placed all pretentious men and women. This part of his mind was where they no longer existed in his world. Sighing, Edward sauntered into the next room, where the small, polished piano resided. Flexing his fingers, he perched down on the bench and not soon later, his mind ventured into another world; one where he could relax. His fingers ran across the porcelain keys, and this became his only real passion in the world. It was his safe harbor.

Nothing else mattered.

* * *

**Rosalie Hale**

Rosalie Hale strutted down the hallway, with Jasper by her side and Alice, their maid, lingering closely behind. Her lips twitched as she resisted the urge to smirk at the eyes following her figure. It was always a temptation not to flirt with some of the men, who were mostly married. After all, what good is her beauty if she wasn't going to flaunt it? Stroking her lips with her sharp tongue, Rosalie raised her chin and continued onward; not even stopping to gaze into the fine strands of water—the water of the ocean. Uh, the salty smell was disgusting to her delicate nose.

"How was your day, Miss Alice?" Jasper inquired softly; boredom in his tone.

Alice, always her jubilant self, came forth. "Lovely. I get to stare into the ocean and travel on such a luxurious ship." If Alice were someone different, Rosalie might have spited her, but the young, poor girl was too jolly and bright to ever be cruel to—at least for Rosalie, who often found her self being snide to _everyone_. Instead, Rosalie smiled crookedly.

"Good for you then," Rosalie said, honest.

Alice beamed.

"… Look at that man," Rosalie whispered, to which Jasper rolled his eyes. Alice giggled feebly. But Rosalie only gazed ahead, astonished by the man leaning across the railing below; they had exited the open hallway and now resided on the upper deck of the ship; the fresh, salty air almost tangible, and many men and women bustling about. But her eyes stared downward, near the deck occupied by the Third-Class people. A man, burly and handsome, stared over the rail; mesmerized by the sea. "He's so… breathtaking."

"Rose," Jasper sighed heavily, "I don't know who you are gawking at, nor do I care." He motioned to Alice. "Let's keep going." Rosalie simply took staggering steps forward, all the while as Jasper and Alice disappeared into the crowd. 'I have to speak with him,' Rosalie thought wildly. Inhaling a deep breath, she strolled hastily toward the gate. Unhooking the chain, with a sign reading FIRST-CLASS UPPER DECK (reminding lower class of their place in the world), she hurriedly ambled down the steps and moved swiftly through the crowd. Two children rolled dice on the ground—gambling, she thought sourly—and everyone just seemed… so at ease. How could anyone be so happy with poverty? Before she could dwell on this thought, she found him. Smoothing the wrinkles on her evening gown, Rosalie stood behind him, wondering what to do. Was she, Rosalie Lillian Hale, actually stumped with another human? That _never_ happened. How could such a man create such a staggering affect on her? He was only—

"Hello."

Astonished by his deep, warm voice, Rosalie watched as he straightened his back; his arms and body muscular and finely sculpted. His dark hair hung in shabby curls on his head, and his russet-colored irises were genuinely kind. She opened her mouth, saying the first thing that came to mind, "How are you, _sir_?" Her heart pounded unevenly and in odd spasms that bewildered her.

He smiled, amused. "Fine… And your name?"

"Rosalie Hale," she responded quickly.

His eyebrows went up in true surprise and curiosity. "A member of the wealthy, first class family?" He stared all around, as if trying to figure out the people around him. "What are you doing with _us_?" He smiled jokingly. "Or am I on the wrong deck?"

"No, you're where you're supposed to be." Her eyes widened at the cruelty and implication of the statement and she quickly added—her words muddling incoherently together: "I mean, you're no _supposed_ to be down here. It's just, that's what the sign says for _you_ people." She slapped her hand to her forehead. "And that didn't come out right either, it's not like you're _that_ poor, but—I mean, I—uh, yes, well—"

"Miss Hale…!"

She snapped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes, but shockingly, he began laughing boisterously—the sound loud and child-like; not at all offended, as she thought it would be; how it _should_ be. Looking up, her eyes sparkling, he was stifling laughter and staring down at her. If it weren't for his incredible innocence and playfulness—not to mention his handsome features—she would be smug at the moment. People were admiring her; gawking at the wealthy beauty who seemed to find no terribleness at speaking with a poorer man.

"I'm sorry," she finally apologized. "I never meant it to be so strongly implying on your current… financial issue."

"I'm not _that _poor," he protested, his voice a mockery of offense.

"And your name?" Rosalie inquired.

He cocked his head. "Emmett McCarty."

"Emmett," she repeated, enjoying the deliciousness of his name on her tongue, "Why are you traveling to England?"

"My fiancée went to England a few months ago, and I've decided, instead of waiting, to go back there with her." He smiled, proud of himself it seemed.

"Fiancée?" Rosalie found herself sputtering.

He nodded and began talking—probably about this woman's beauty and such—, but all she could concentrate on was the emptiness cutting a hole into her chest; a real pain that snapped at her veins. Her insides were tearing apart and she felt an overwhelming malice for this woman—the woman who had seemingly stolen his heart. She was a stranger, giving Rosalie no right to despise her, but her emotions betrayed her; snaring her heart into a painful twist. Her throat was burning—the familiar feeling as if you were going to begin sobbing at any moment.

She wouldn't allow that. Breathing evenly, she smiled forcibly up at him. "I-I've got to go find my dear brother, Mr. McCarty. I hope you have a wonderful day." Tipping her head, she whirled around and nearly sprinted away; her eyes stinging as moistness draped down on them. After unhooking the chain and slamming the gate shut, she gripped the hem of her evening gown, pulled it up slightly, and began running down the halls; ignoring the looks of disapproval. All she wanted to do was enter her room and sob into her satin pillow. To be away from everyone and be in solitude.

"Rosalie?" Edward, who had been mingling near the open hallway, pushed himself off the circular-window's curve and reached out to her. When she tore away from him and turned a corner, he could only watch and wonder as to why she was sprinting "unfashionably" down the halls, her deep aqua eyes glassy. She was a mystery: one he could never hope to unravel.

* * *

**Isabella and Jacob**

Isabella, sitting in the seat, droned out the tedious conversation being exchanged between the six members at the table: her mother, Jacob Black—her fiancé—, his father—Billy Black—, his sisters—Rachel and Rebecca—and the silent film actress, Victoria Isolde Blair. Isabella stared at the actress, still stunned by her flaming red curls, but also by the darkness swirling in her eyes. Her husband, a director, had died from heart failure, leaving her to be alone, yet still wealthy. It was gossiped that they were extremely in love, and that his death was wearing down her beauty and eliminating the once kindness she possessed: converting her into a cruel, snide, and sarcastic woman with little care for herself or others.

"Ah, I can't wait for the wedding," Renee gushed.

Jacob, smirking smugly, leaned back against his seat and listened carefully to everyone speaking. He was well-built, tough-skinned, dark, and handsome, with charming ebony eyes and a smug smile always plastered to his face. Several feet away, slumped against a wooden pillar was Jacob's manservant, Embry. "You women and your strange fantasies," Jacob chided with a roll of his eyes after Renee had finished explaining about how the wedding should be held and done—a bit over the top, probably.

Isabella continued staring at the walls. The entire room was decorated with bright colors and white wood: pale yellow walls and a crimson carpet. The chandeliers were sparkling diamond and the seats were cushioned with gold and lavender fabric—a sign of royalty for those with money. The fine silverware gleamed as the sun from the windows leaked into the room. However, Isabella took no notice to the sheer serenity and calmness of the public dining room. In fact, staring at the walls was a way to ignore the dull conversation being murmured throughout the area.

"And what, Miss Isabella, is so fascinating about those walls?" Rachel seethed, causing Rebecca to burst forth of bubbling giggles. Both girls, twins, always found ways to spite her; having fun with it, too. She often speculated that they both knew she felt no feelings toward Jacob, and considered it truly horrible for their brother to be in a loveless marriage… They had every reason to hate her.

"Sit up straighter," Jacob commanded under his breath. Mechanically, Isabella arched her back and leveled her shoulders. Billy grimaced—as though ashamed of his _son_ and not _her_—, Renee continued smiling naïvely, and both twin sisters sniggered once more. Victoria arched an eyebrow and sent—unknown to everyone but Isabella—Jacob a shrewd, cutting glare: one that could easily freeze hell to the core.

"Yes, Isabella, sit up straighter." Rebecca giggled madly.

"So, a silent film actress?" Jacob inclined, his words directed toward Victoria. She nodded once, not even caring to be "proper" as she tipped her head back, chin facing upward, and downed an entire glass of champagne. He played with his collar, uncomfortable, while both the twins widened their eyes in surprise. "Is that a great way to go about your life, with no husband?" Jacob seemed appalled by her career.

"I _had_ a husband," Victoria snapped furiously; slamming the glass back on the table.

He leaned back, not at all stunned by her outburst. "Hmm… Why not—"

"Find a new one?" She scoffed. "Some of us actually believe in _affectionate love_, Mr. Black."

He scowled, attempting to control his anger. Leaning forward, he contradicted her: "I _love _Isabella." Gripping Isabella's upper arm, he forced her closer—her arm now burning from his harsh jerk—and snaked his arm around her waist. She glimpsed down at the dark tint of his flesh; his veins protruding as rage sliced into his core—rage at the woman's accusations. But Isabella knew well that people in love knew the meaning of love, and could very well sense it… And Victoria could detect no love emitting from Isabella. Ignoring the sickness lurching in her stomach, Isabella gnawed on the inside of her cheek.

"Now, why are you heading to England, Ms. Blair?" Renee asked softly; attempting to convert the hostility into tranquility. Renee was never one to actually enjoy petty arguments, unlike most others who would consider it raving thrill for gossip at supper. Victoria, averting her heated glare away from Jacob, craned her neck to gaze at Renee—the anger in her eyes vanishing.

"I want to be away from America—away from the spotlight. I need to be alone."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Isabella whispered. Jacob unloosed his arm, seeing that he didn't need to show their "love", and nodded in agreement. Rachel and Rebecca lowered their eyes, as if uncomfortable with the grief.

"He was a great man," Victoria murmured.

Isabella nodded her head.

"A great man," she whispered, not intending for anyone to hear. Jacob threw her a side glance—being the only one who heard her—and the others continued speaking to one another. Billy had remained silent the entire time, and was now staring at the white fabric on the table, his eyes emotionless. Isabella knew that since the death of his wife, he had become to shell of a man that his three children were forced to take care of. He was just withering away: allowing his depression to swallow him each day.

"May I be excused to my suite?" Isabella asked politely.

"No—"

"Of course!" Billy's cold, but composed voice allowed, all the while as he eyed his son disdainfully. Standing up, Isabella strolled away; ignoring Jacob's heated gaze burning into her back. Her heart clenched tightly. She could feel her organs squirming around, trying to eliminate the nausea in her stomach. As the doorman opened the glass door for her, she whispered a thank you and continued toward her common room. As she continued onward, down the various halls, darkness slipped across her vision. Her knees shook violently and for some reason, the walls began rumbling closer. The meaningless noise disappeared, and vaguely, she could hear a smooth, gentle voice whispering her name. She fell into the dark abyss, this time, screams of protest echoing all around. Her breath stopped and she wished, to every god and goddess, that death had finally caught her.

* * *

**Esme Cullen **

Esme Cullen stared affectionately down at the sallow, heart-shaped girl lying on the sofa. Carlisle had hastily gone to acquire his aid-kit, leaving Esme to look after the girl who had fainted before them just minutes before. Alice had scurried to fetch the family, who was a woman—her name vague in Esme's jumbled thoughts—with dark tresses and a bubbly attitude; Isabella's mother. After finding an empty lounge room, Carlisle had set her inside, careful with her frail limbs, and left. The girl's—named Isabella Higginbotham—dark curls limply hung on her face; covering her closed eyes. Esme rested her palm on Isabella's heart—beating soundly, it seemed.

"Esme, love, could you make room, please?" She stood up instantly, allowing Carlisle to kneel by the girl. He placed a damp fabric on her forehead and once again, gently shook her delicate body. She did not stir; her face remaining peaceful in the deadness of her sleep. "She should wake up," Carlisle observed, perplexed, "But why is requiring so much time?"

"In here!"

Esme whipped her head around as a tall, broad man and a thinner woman—the mother—came sprinting inside. Alice stood near the door, worried, with Jasper standing behind her; his eyes locked on the girl. "What happened?" The woman was truly terrified and the man seemed rigid; as if controlling his anxiety, if there was any. But yes, his eyes were screaming from the nervousness.

"She fainted," Carlisle informed.

"Will she awaken?"

"Soon."

"Why would she faint?" Alice came forward, curious as she waved her hand through the air. "The temperature is average, the air is fresh, and everything free of dust. Is there a reason for fainting?" The man gazed at her, scowling; as if offended that a mere maid would have the decency to speak with them. However, seeing as it wasn't his family's maid, he could not scold her in any way.

"It can be spontaneous," Carlisle said.

Esme bit her bottom lip. "When will—"

As if possessed by a demon, Isabella bolted upward, her eyes wide; a cool sweat coating the tender flesh of her forehead. All but Carlisle jerked back, frightened by the harsh, sudden movement of her meager body. Supported by her gaunt elbows, Isabella hesitantly stared around her, confusion sweeping her dread away. The woman, now exhaling a great deal of air, came forth and wrapped her slim arms around Isabella and hugged her tightly; not daring to unloosen her grip. Isabella opened her mouth, as though to speak, but a weak breath roll off her tongue.

"Well…"

Everyone turned around to see—still there—Jasper and now Edward situated a few feet away. Jasper smiled weakly as a way to show his concern and relief, but it was Edward who continued grimacing. He locked eyes with Isabella, who leaned away from the hell in his eyes. "This was pointlessly dramatic." His voice seemed slightly irritated, and with his shoulders raised, he whipped around and strutted indifferently away. His words regarded the situation of each of them crowded around Isabella, a stranger to half of the people positioned in the lounge room.

"He's a pleasant fellow," the dark man muttered sarcastically.

Jasper shrugged back that remark. "You wouldn't know any of what he goes through."

"And he wouldn't know of anything I go through," Isabella snapped. Esme stared down at her, stunned. From the corner of her eye, she could tell that the man seemed outraged; not at all enjoying her dry comment, making Esme wonder. But with a trivial jerk, she leaned against Carlisle, her savior, terror in her eyes as she caught sight of the familiar emotion chained to the man's expression—an emotion she remembered seeing in Charles whenever he was drunk or fueled by irrational fury.

And in that moment, Esme felt pity for Isabella.

* * *

**AN: **So, Rosalie & Emmett—Titanic; Edward & Bella—Pride & Prejudice. I spotted the emotions between Edward and Bella, and it reminded me of Pride & Prejudice, so I'm putting that in there as a disclaimer. And I noticed how much Rosalie and Emmett reminded me of Jack and Rose (ha!)! That was all unintended. Jacob's character is a lot like Cal from Titanic (I do 'like' Jacob, but it's all for the story), and that is certainly intended. Sorry to burst anyone's bubble, but this ship won't sink. No climatic, death-filled ending… maybe –_snicker_- 


	2. Heavenly Under Beauty’s Embrace

**Brilliance: A Story Of Romance & Fairies**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter II:**

Heavenly Under Beauty's Embrace

* * *

**June 14, 1911—Day One**

"_Of course it's unfair. We're women… Our choices are never easy."—__Ruth Dewitt Bukater, Titanic_

Isabella wandered slowly down the deck; admiring the cool waves of the ocean. It was evening, and the previous hours were hell—her daydreams being consumed with vivid, horrid mages of a brutal wedding between her and Jacob: his cruel smirk following her into her thoughts. He never once harmed her—in fact, he cared for her, that much was clear: so possessively—but it seemed as if she was testing his patience each day. She could see the visible impatience he had for her "insolence," as he once commented; her sheer ability to voice every single thought that slipped across her mind. It annoyed him greatly, but why sew her lips shut and pretend to be the little porcelain doll he imagines her to be?

"Hello, Miss Isabella."

Puzzled by the optimistic voice, she halted in her steps, and stared to her side. She nearly gasped at the sight of Edward Cullen, arms crossed; but felt a wave of assurance cross her path as she realized it was the family maid, Alice, who had spoken. When Isabella had awoken from her faint the previous hours before, she had exchanged a few brief words with the kind girl, who, surprisingly, was older—18.

"How are you this fine evening? You're not faint, right? Are you well?"

Isabella smiled sweetly. "Yes, _well_. And yourself?"

"Fine."

"And how about you, Mr.—"

"Fine," Edward intervened, his voice gruff. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head indignantly and scowled furiously at him. "There's no need to be snappish with me." His eyes hardened as he turned his eyes onto her; never tearing them away. She held firm—her white gown gleaming in the bright sun, while he lingered under the shade. Alice stepped away, watching them cautiously.

"How am I being snappish?"

"By your cold tone—"

"Maybe this is my normal tone," Edward lashed out tauntingly.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And how am _I_ supposed to know that you're normally a moody, foul man?"

"You're not," he responded dryly, "You merely judge upon sight, Isabella. I know." He took a step closer, forcing her to stumble back. "You only see wealth and class, but never personality." Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened drastically.

"No I—"

"Why else would you marry the equally foul Jacob Black?"

She gritted her teeth, eyes murderous. "You know nothing of what my situation is."

"Of how you'll be poor so you have to force yourself onto a rich man?" Edward smiled smugly; something far worse than Jacob's. "Isabella, it's been a pleasure, but I must speak with humans I care for." Reeling around on his heel, he stormed away. Isabella's back leaned against the railing as her chest heaved with the pressure of anger swelling in her chest. Alice chewed on her lip and gazed all around, as though wishing for some help.

"Are you—"

"I'll be fine," Isabella snapped childishly.

"I'm terribly sorry about his accusations," Alice hastily proclaimed, "He's always been a snappy man."

"That doesn't give him right to judge people so harshly."

"… I know. I'm sorry."

Isabella pressed a tentative hand on her own heart, willing its irate pace to cool. "Don't be, Alice."

"But I've seen you, also," Alice continued, her words a bit reluctant, "How you look upon everyone, particularly high class people, with disdain and prejudice. I can not blame you because of the way people typically act, but you must know, Isabella… Not everyone can be judged simply by comparing their wealth and status." She smoothed her fingers through her tight curls. "I know that Jasper is not like most."

Isabella, frowning, began sauntering slowly toward the entrance to the lounge room, contemplating Alice's words, just as the maid trailed closely behind, as if worried that her words ignited even more of Isabella's passionate temper. As they strolled down the open hallway, a group of girls leaned into one another and whispered harshly, their eyes directed toward Isabella and Alice.

"They don't like me being so close to you. I don't belong with people such as yourself," Alice murmured.

Isabella waved her hand dismissively. "Let them gossip and whisper—let see if I give a damn."

"Language," Alice muttered coldly.

"I suppose a _maid_ scolding _me_ is the reason for their gossip," Isabella snickered, propelling Alice to lower her eyes, seemingly insulted by the statement. Isabella, slightly remorseful, merely ignored it, and continued speaking, "Alice, if you haven't noticed, I'm not the entirely proper, typical woman. I am snide to my _fiancé_"—she spat out the word—"and dull gossip never touches my anger."

"Of course you're the typical first class woman," Alice snapped, her voice almost too loud.

Isabella halted in her tracks and turned around to gaze into the maid's burning eyes. "What?" Isabella hissed under her breath, as she pulled Alice away from the pathway of walking men and women; the group of girls watching excitedly from afar.

"Because you can stick up to your lover, you think you deserve a metal presented by the queen and king?" Alice mocked. "Isabella, you may not think it, but I know you lavish in the power you've been given—how much you thrive on tormenting others simply to help ease the pain of being in this society. You strut about, proud that you can curse, insult, and have more esteem than most women and men. But in the end, when you're done wearing that shiny golden crown on your head, sooner or later, all the damage will come toppling back onto you, and you'll fall into the miserable hole that everyone in this world lives in. Isabella, you are a cruel queen… your cruelty _will _backfire."

Isabella, somewhat numb from her words, narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying I'll be miserable forever?"

"No," Alice whispered, her tone losing its heated zeal, "First, you will hit that misery, but… something bright, like the rays of sunshine, will find your heart. You're a survivor, Isabella… You'll make it through…" Bowing her head, Alice ambled away, ignoring everyone's gaze as she disappeared behind a corner. Isabella simply remained rooted to the spot, trying to unravel the meaning behind Alice's confident words of wisdom. She was a maid, not some prophetess like the Trojan, _Cassandra_. No, Alice's words were meaningless…

Then why did they feel so terrible right and wonderful?

* * *

The night was tremendous, with everyone sitting in the dinner hall, engrossed in conversation and luscious meals. Isabella gazed out the window, watching the silver moon hover above the sea; reflecting its beaming light like a mirror. The waves were calm; not one ripple or rising wave. The navy sky burned with millions of stars, maybe planets. Once in awhile, the diamond prisms from the chandeliers hit Isabella's sight, forcing her to blink back the spots in her vision. A hearth, framed with gold, held a fire within in it that cast flames across the wall and emanated warmth. The murmuring throughout the room resembled the gentle humming of some instrument; a band—violins, cellos, and a grand piano—played their songs: bows flicking against the strings and fingers dancing on the keys, creating a delicate musical flow between each instrument.

"I can not wait to see the bridesmaids' gowns," Renee rambled, her eyes flickering excitedly from each member of the dinner table: Jacob Black, Billy Black, Rachel and Rebecca Black, Josephine and Jack Stanley (with their lively, sixteen-year-old daughter, Jesse), and Edna Newton, along with her son, Michael, the womanizing seventeen-year-old. Jesse and Josephine paid close attention to Renee's words, while Jack appeared seemingly lost in the fast-moving words of the women.

Josephine and Jack Stanley were a clear example of true love—Jack being a heir to a fortune and having willingly married Josephine, a Frenchwoman who had been on the streets, painting, with nothing but pennies in her pocket. Needless to say, Jack's mother—especially after the death of her husband—didn't approve of the relationship.

Edna Newton, after losing her husband, was leaving to search for a new one—one with attractive looks and a fine amount of money. Isabella shifted uncomfortably under Michael desiring eyes, while Jesse sent Isabella peeved glares. Of course, unlike Jesse, Isabella found nothing appealing about Michael, especially whenever he launched himself into his "I am a God" speech.

"The fabric is of fine, French"—Josephine's eyes brightened—"silk, and the color of pure romance—burgundy!" She clapped her hands delightfully together and Isabella wondered why she wasn't bouncing up and down in her seat yet. "Oh, I need to thank Madame Charlotte soon!"

"And when will the wedding take place?" Jesse prompted lightly.

Jacob, who had been tapping the table, answered, with complete enthusiasm, "July 10—nearly a month after we arrive in England. We'll have to travel all the way to Colne, Lancashire, where some distant relatives reside of the Black Family. They couldn't take America, apparently"—a burst of short laughter erupted—"but yes, the date is set for July 10."

"In the warm glow of summer?" Jesse gushed happily, "How lucky you are, Isabella." Jack shook his head amusingly at his daughter, knowing that there was no "warm glow" in the time of summer in England—more of a cool breeze, fresh and clean in the lungs.

Each pair of eyes shifted in Isabella's direction, but she made no notice that her name had been called—her pale brown orbs trained to the sea outside the window. Jacob, who sat near her, leaned to the side and muttered: "Isabella, look up and pay attention." Her heart pounded at his crisp breath brushing into her neck. Willing her chilled skin to warm, she turned her eyes to the table and plastered a charming smile to her face.

"Yes, thank you."

Jacob tipped back approvingly.

"And how will the bridal gown appear?" Edna inquired.

Renee stroked her chin thoughtfully, trying to recall the image of the gown Isabella had decided to buy (rather apathetically). "The sleeves puffed at the shoulders, and the top half was smooth, white satin. The bottom half was netted with peach-colored tulle. A decorative lace hemming lined the bottom, and it is rather fashionable, says Madame Charlotte."

"Yes, fashionable," Jesse agreed, already picturing the gown in her head; most probably on her own flimsy body rather than on Isabella.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Edna fanned her face in excitement and stood suddenly, the seat scraping back; waving her hands to someone and gesturing to the five empty seats Isabella had been musing on—late arrivals, it seemed. But her eyes, after adjusting through the bright haze of the crystal shine, hardened as Edward approached, along with the rest of his family—Carlisle Hale, Esme Cullen, Jasper and Rosalie Hale. They were extraordinary beings, each heavenly and angelic, especially in the prisms of the diamond chandeliers. "Come sit, please!"

Jacob leaned against her, whispering frostily, "Rather rude to arrive late, don't you think?"

Smiling falsely, Isabella nodded for his benefit; but she quickly went back to admiring each of the Cullen/Hale family, her eyes especially dazzled by Edward; her mind screaming at her to not fall for his attractiveness, for he was rude and malicious.

Rosalie Hale sauntered forward, clad in a crimson gown embedded with silvery sequins; the hem of her gown fixed with golden lace. A pearl necklace draped around her neck, further proving the family's wealth. Her skin was flawless, and her cheeks pinched with an attractive shade of rose red. Although it seemed unintentional, she was the more sexual of the two women (herself and Esme). The passionate color of her gown coupled with her magnificently carved figure provided to her sexual aura. No doubt that most men swooned around her; already, Jesse appeared jade with envy.

Esme sported a peach gown; the elbow-length gloves on her arms being a bright, crisp gold. A necklace dangled around her slender neck—a locket, probably holding a photo or two of value within it. Her dark, fine curls were glossy and peeled to one side; pretty earrings in her ears. An aroma of elegance seeped from her delicate frame—classy: more so than most women and men.

Carlisle, Jasper, and Edward sported shining, finely pressed suits; Jasper and Carlisle's blonde tendrils were slicked back and smooth, but apparently, Edward opted to have his bronze hair remain a mess framing his face… And Isabella felt the overwhelming pressure of infatuation consume her frail heart once realizing how much it appealed to her. Grasping the glass of champagne, she tipped back her head and took an unladylike amount—thankfully, with no one noticing, especially Jacob. The bitter, yet satisfying tinge flowed down her throat, shredding her chest apart to help make her chaotic emotions disperse for a few brief moments.

"Good evening, Carlisle," Jack greeted warmly—glad to be in the company of men (Billy rarely spoke and Isabella had a faint feeling that Jack felt unpleasant feelings toward Jacob). Carlisle sat beside Jack: Esme beside her husband, then Rosalie, then Jasper, and lastly, Edward—he never once glimpsed at her, probably not wanting to spike her anger or his own. Already, Isabella could feel the animalistic hatred triggered toward him. It was worse now that he sat so dangerously close to her; their body warmth touching.

**-:-**

**Table Arrangement**

**Edna…Michael…Jesse…Josephine…Jack…Carlisle**

**Renee………………………………………………………………… Esme**

**No One ………………………………………………………………….. Rosalie  
Billy……………………………………………………………… Jasper**

**Rachel…Rebecca…Jacob…Isabella…Edward**

**-:-**

"Good evening to you, also," Carlisle replied silkily.

Jesse's lips jutted as Michael fawned over Rosalie, who in turn, merely placed the napkin on her lap, crossed her legs, and smiled sweetly at the entire table; her eyes, however, appeared stressed. Instantly, Edna came forth, "May I introduce you to the dinner party?" She gestured to each of us, introduced our names, and leaving Jesse last—having started with Renee.

"Your name is Jesse?" Rosalie asked politely, with a bitterness in her words, "Three J's in the family?"

Jesse nodded rapidly.

"But… isn't Jesse a boy's name?"

Now, Jesse flushed red—humiliated—as she stared at the silverware on the table. However, Jack broke out into boisterous laughter as he explained humorously, "Well, my little Josephine over here thought it a pretty name, not even knowing it was meant for a man"—Josephine bashed her eyelashes adorably at her husband—"and at that time, she could barely speak a word of English! Luckily, I knew a little French."

"It was most terrible of me," Josephine giggled, her French accent lacing through her words.

Isabella, unlike the others, did not laugh. Instead, she stared at Rosalie, wondering how such a woman—living with a kind sibling and generous parents—could become such a cruel beast of a woman. Maybe it was her beauty—so superior over everyone else—that fueled her spitefulness. Not daring to settle on the thought, Isabella folded her arms over her lap and began tapping her foot on the carpet, impatient for the meal to arrive.

"Stop tapping your foot," Jacob ordered automatically.

Without a second's thought, Isabella halted the movement, leveled the slumping of her shoulders, and stared straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edward grimace, ostensibly disgusted. Locking her jaw, Isabella (not wanting to show any sign of weakness), crossed her legs, pulled out her turquoise cigarette holder, and struck a match and held it under the cigarette. Once lit, she felt a wave of relief once seeing that nobody cared; not even Jacob, who was engrossed in a conversation that the table was paying attention to: something Josephine was saying about her poor travels in childhood with a poverty-ridden family; how her love for Jack bloomed. It was all rather tragic, but Isabella could only take in the intoxicating bitterness drying her throat and making her even more ravenous for their meal.

Edward's nostrils flared in blatant repulsion. "Must you smoke now?"

"Maybe…" Inhaling another puff of the shady smoke, she tauntingly blew it in his direction; a vindictive smirk forming on her face. He cursed under his breath and craned his neck so that he could speak quietly with Jasper, whose expression was that of boredom.

"—and I couldn't help it!" Josephine burbled energetically, still on about her childhood and early years, "Jack here was so handsome and sleek in his suit and tie that I just had to paint him. I was even more shocked when he actually agreed. Most of the time, people often looked at me with revulsion and such, but he posed perfectly for hours… all for me!"

"You were beautiful," Jack supplied soothingly; honestly. Yes, Josephine was an exotic Frenchwoman—copper, glossy flesh and luxurious black tresses that tumbled to her waist (at the moment, pulled into a curly bun held up by a butterfly pin). Her style of attire was completely French—from the colors (turquoise, black, golden yellow) to the lace and bows of her gown. However, it was her eyes that fascinated Isabella: a sea of turquoise-emerald. Not wanting to feel even more captivated, Isabella took in another smoke; scratching at her throat.

Isabella frowned with displeasure as Michael continued gazing—rather pointedly—at her chest, primarily around where the curves of her breast began forming. Gritting her teeth, she loosened her bun slightly, allowing curls to tumble free, and placed a large proportion of them in front of her chest, thus covering his view. Visibly, Michael's inane smile vanished, and he opted to stare now at Rosalie, who seemed at ease with revealing all she could; her voice melodic and seductive (Isabella could not tell if it was intentional or not).

"Rose sure is enjoying herself," Isabella heard Jasper murmur to Edward.

"She always finds a way," Edward agreed sardonically.

Isabella, now anxious from the hunger, began toying with her silver, pearly collar necklace; the smooth texture cold against her skin. As she gazed into her champagne glass, her reflection expanded in her eyes—showing what she was groomed to be. Her attire most resembled a tea gown—loose and flexible, it was a pale, light shade of pink (a salmon color), with a silky white fabric corset-dress tucked under. The gown (particularly the color) accented well with her cream-colored skin, but did little to show the full extent of her curves (unlike the other women at the table, mainly Rosalie). Most often, she cared little about showing off for her 'fiancé', but at the moment, her body wanted nothing more than to gloat about how beautiful she could be, in front of Edward—to show that she, too, could be a dazzling being.

But her skin, although creamy, was near translucent: ivory and almost unhealthy-looking. Her lips were slightly too full and large for her face, but some people often commented that it was "lovely" and "luscious". And her hair lacked shimmer and shine, mostly more of a pale brown rather than a glistening mahogany. As these thoughts progressed, Isabella felt her air of esteem and pride sink to the floor.

"Ah, finally," Isabella heard Rebecca sigh happily, "Our dinner has arrived."

"Becky, you cow!" Rachel teased playfully in her shrill voice.

Isabella rolled her eyes, but felt suddenly gleeful as a silver plate was placed before her; then to the remainder of the table—caviar, with all its mushy, garbled black mess. Grabbing the appropriate utensil, she felt the desire to spoon it all into her mouth (after all, there was barely any of her plate), but not wanting to mortify herself or Jacob, she merely took simple, smart bites. Although not so pleasurable on her tongue, Isabella forced it into her throat; just as she's done since the first time she first tasted it.

"Oh, you ferocious cow!" Rachel cried toward her sister, who only had a thumb-sized amount.

"The lobster will come soon," Edward informed Jasper.

It was an American Delicacy and some of the English aboard the ship felt confused by this difference: mostly seafood delicacies, that is. But yes, Americans did seem to hold an affectionate spot for the sea—enough to tear away its creatures and boil them alive. Once again, the conversation ignited, further tiring Isabella greatly. Her back ached from sitting so straightly. A minor pain lingered in her head; probably from the bright lighting of the room.

"So," Jasper began, startling Isabella, for he was speaking to her, "I see that you've made friends with our maid, Alice?"

Isabella cocked her head and smiled. "Yes."

"That's good," Jasper whispered, "Good for her to have friends."

"You're friends with a maid?" Edward asked, apparently bemused.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" she challenged.

"I wouldn't expect it to be very classy to someone such as yourself," Edward answered with a tone of mocking. Her heart beat wildly with the anger boiling her blood. Puckering her lips angrily, Isabella turned her body away from him and continued eating; attempting to pretend that he didn't exist. This seemed to please him greatly, for he chuckled, however mirthlessly.

"What a wonderful evening," Isabella said sarcastically.

"I'm glad you're having a great time," Jacob replied, overhearing her statement and not detecting the sarcasm in her tone.

"Yes, I've been making some _fantastic _friends." She eyed Edward, who merely grunted in return. Beside him, Jasper sighed dramatically and shook his head at his brother, as if scolding a foolish child.

"He'll come through," Jasper assured, not caring that Edward heard.

Isabella, taking once glance at Edward, scoffed. "Yes, just when hell freezes over."

Jasper sputtered a laugh.

* * *

Isabella gripped the wooden bedpost as Petunia untied her corset, a bit roughly and impatiently. "If you didn't tie it so harshly in the first place, it'd be less of an effort to undo," she whined, pushing Petunia to unfasten the lacings even more painfully—a way of retaliation, probably, against her complaints. The corset finally unloosened, the full extent of oxygen shoved into Isabella's stomach; the pure ecstasy of release and freedom finding her body.

Petunia wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. "My, that took a lot of energy." Sniffling, she began patting the bed sheets; smoothing them down and preparing them for when Isabella would sleep. Muttering a goodnight, Petunia rushed out of the room, leaving Isabella to flop down on the bed, exhausted. Even after so long, prancing around and dressing up everyday still wore her down. Sometimes, when the moon was full and the insects singing, she found her thoughts wandering into another land. She couldn't understand. Why do women not receive the rightness they—

"Isabella?" a familiar voice whispered. Sure enough, Alice stepped cautiously into the room, smiling weakly. The light under the lampshades flicked shadows against her face, creating a shadow figure behind her tiny frame.

She slipped to her feet, befuddled. "A-Alice… what are you doing here, so late at night?" Alice quietly shut the door and sat down on the bed, patting the spot beside her. Isabella, hesitant, perched down. She was only clad in her nightgown: a thin white cloth. Shifting her feet, feeling awkward, Isabella waited for the maid to speak; to voice the reason behind this late night visit.

"I know that you are miserable," Alice explained knowingly, "I've seen it on your face."

"I suppose I can be melancholy sometimes," Isabella agreed wryly.

"Sometimes?" Alice's thin eyebrows flew up. "More like most of your waking hours! From dawn to midnight, you walk about the ship, consumed by all that somberness building in your body. For those such as myself, who are insightful, I can see the truth—"

"Like a witch," Isabella muttered.

"—and I don't want you to do anything rash or impulsive." She gingerly cupped Isabella's cold hand. "You can tell me everything you've been thinking, and I know how dreamy you are." She giggled sweetly. "What good of your opinions if nobody hears them?"

Isabella blinked, truly stunned by this petite woman. Finally, she compiled all that she wanted the world to know, and opened up with the first words that trailed across her mind. "Why is it that women are so harshly raped of their choices and rights?"

"I say," Alice began deviously, "That we go on a strike—us women—and refuse to have any sort of intercourse"—Isabella's eyes widened dramatically, her mouth dropping open in astonishment—"and see how the men survive without their precious generation of strong, sturdy men."

Isabella snickered. "Yes, but how would your dear Rosalie ever survive…?"

A flicker of confusion momentarily blinded Alice's amusement. She leaned toward Isabella, wondering: "What do you mean?"

"Well, hasn't she…?"

Finally catching on, Alice jerked back and began shaking her head quickly, back and forth, "Oh, no, no, no, no! Heaven's no!" She closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she attempted to manage a breath through the excitement in her stomach. Isabella continued to stare, perplexed as to why such a captivating siren such as Rosalie would never have… "She's still chaste," Alice summed.

"That's… nice."

"I know, with all her enticing words and such that she'd seem like a… whore…" Alice cringed. "But no, Rosalie has standards and she keeps to them. She's a moral woman searching for love, that is clear."

"Hmm… Don't we all desire love?"

Alice's hazel eyes softened. "I know that you want to love."

"I find it terrible that I can not love my fiancé," Isabella groaned, as she fell onto her back. The soft wool pressed comfortably against her rigid back. Rubbing her temples, she pressed her lips into a firm line. "In fact, Jacob is a man that I should never be forced to marry!"

"Forced to marry?" Alice blanched. "You're being forced?"

"No…" Isabella sat up and gazed at the walls. "Well, yes… by my conscious. If I marry him, then my mother won't have to slave for the remainder of her life. I don't want to be a seamstress or anything of that, but I'd feel even more remorseful if my mother was forced to become one!"

Alice sighed knowingly. "So you're pulling this façade to save your mother?"

"Yes."

"To me, that's just—"

They quieted at the sound of running footsteps pattering just outside the door. Bolting out of her bed, Isabella yanked open the door, just in time to see a girl turn the corner, blonde hair flaying about her head. Alice hissed from behind; muttering some curse words. "Damn that Laura."

"Who is Laura?"

"Another of the maids," Alice explained gruffly, "And I fear that she's just overheard our conversation." Seeing no hint of dread on Isabella's face, Alice added, "She's obsessed with gossip and scandal, and will use this information in any way she can to spite you." A reassuring smile immediately curled up Alice's lips. "But luckily, you're not one to be easily spited."

"But my mother is," Isabella whispered solemnly.


	3. Chained By Love’s Sight

**Brilliance: A Story Of Romance & Fairies**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter III:**

Chained By Love's Sight

* * *

**June 15, 1911—Day Two**

Edward's long fingers rapidly moved across the piano keys, creating sensational, rhythmic music that whispered throughout the room. He didn't even bother gazing at the movement of his hands; instead, staring into the polished wood of the piano as he took in the appearance of his morbid, emotionless expression. Was that always his same mood? He couldn't even tell—days and hours flew by without a thought, especially when around people murmuring about the latest, tedious scandal or… a pointless wedding that irritated him immensely.

Had Isabella even registered that many of the people at the table were speaking about her? Edward recalled glancing at several times, only to find her brown orbs glazed over and her face remaining still; as if her mind was working properly, but not her body. Thinking about her caused his fingers to jab violently at the keys now—how she blew smoke into his face, thinking it agitated him, but not knowing that in truth, it further made her more alluring. She possessed a frail body, but he could see the hurricane churning uncontrollably in her eyes.

But then again, she was mere woman using her enthralling skills to harvest the money of a wealthy man—all so that she wouldn't lose all the remainder of her money. She'd rather be primped into a little doll for the rest of her life instead of actually working—showing her inability to survive in reality, which in turn, made a certain part of him feel malice toward her.

A hand gently landed on his shoulder, abruptly ending the song from the piano. Expecting to see Esme, or maybe Rosalie, Edward shifted around, but his teeth ground together in unrestrained irritation as he found himself staring into Laura's bright blue eyes, now wide as if she had seen something shocking. Shrugging off her touch, he stood up and folded his arms across one another.

She took a faltering step back. "I have something to tell you—"

"Something important, please?"

"Well, I couldn't find Rosalie," Laura explained hurriedly, "So I'll have to tell you." Taking in a deep breath, he became curious as to why she could hardly breathe evenly. "Last night, the maid, Alice, snuck out of her quarters and visited Isabella Swan"—Edward winced, strangely, at the sound of _her_ name—"and as they were talking, I found her… But I also found out that Isabella doesn't want to marry Jacob Black." Seeing the hint of shock on his face, Laura rushed with her words. "_I know_! Why wouldn't she?! Yes, she doesn't want to be a seamstress or any of that, but she's only marrying him so her mother doesn't have to suffer. Yes, it's all very noble of her, but really…? Why not leave Jacob to someone who can love him, right? It's not very—"

"… Laura."

She stared up, eyes glistening; expecting a reward, probably. "Yes?"

"Get out."

"… But I—"

"_Laura_," he cautioned softly. Noticing the warning present in his voice, she murmured something incoherent and ambled away; slamming the door loudly behind her. Edward, sighing, sat back down on the piano bench, now truly confused by the many emotions in his body. Learning that she's chained to an unwanted destiny made her, Isabella, seem… beautiful—inside and out. Selfless and independent, she was, and it pained his heart now. He could remember, in his innocent, young years, when he became infatuated with an adorable, funny girl… once realizing the hopelessness of it, he was able to eliminate the emotions; however, when she began talking to him sweetly again, it all came rushing back—the admiration, the love, and the affection. Of course, that had been a petty crush, but now, he was in the same predicament—more mature, but still the same… almost.

Isabella was to be married, and it was inevitable: his fondness and yearning for her was a lost cause that would never fully develop, especially seeing as she despised him greatly (maybe more than Jacob). She can't be his, no matter what, and Edward couldn't help but wonder how he could love a mere acquaintance so easily… Nothing in this world, at the moment, made sense.

He _wanted _her.

* * *

Isabella perched down on one of the lounge seats settled on the promenade deck. The sea, if you were to gaze over the railing, would be glistening and sparkling with the reflection from the sun (the sun, which hovered high in the sky). Jacob was off a few feet away, conversing with several officers—friends of his. Renee and Edna stood in the shade, their hands waving about as they discussed gowns and such other fashion. The sunshine poured onto the deck, warming her soul and body. Jesse listened intently to what Michael was saying, her eyes wide and attentive.

She continued to stare all around. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Edward Cullen sauntering her way, along with Rosalie and Jasper. Before she could begin piling up all the nasty remarks she could throw at him, the expression on his face caught her attention. Edward wore an expression of content and barely alive happiness—emotions she couldn't spot on him since their first meeting. Puzzled, Isabella slid onto her feet and waited for them to approach. However, the moment the three stopped in front of her, Rosalie strolled off in a rush, her eyes trained on something on the lower deck.

"Excuse my sister," Jasper murmured, as he stared after the blonde.

"Why is she going down with the—"

"How are you today, Isabella?" Edward interjected, smirking—not cruelly or deviously, but just a simple smirk that meant no harm. Her eyebrows pinched together and the confusion swept across her mind; jumbling her thoughts. Jasper, noticing this, chuckled lowly.

"I know—I have no idea why he's so cheery."

Edward frowned. "_Cheery_?"

"You do seem happy at the moment," Isabella agreed.

"It's the sun," he replied coolly.

"Sunshine brings more sunshine," she muttered sourly.

"What is Rose trying to pull?" Jasper hissed angrily. Isabella, curious, followed his seething gaze. Near the stern of the ship, in the third class deck, Rosalie talked animatedly with a strong, burly man, who grinned widely in return to her fast-moving lips and hand gestures. Her elbow slumped against the railing, supporting her weight as she leaned—too close for comfort—toward his chest, the man seemingly oblivious to her bold antics. Even from afar, Rosalie glowed glamorously. But what would she be doing with a lower class man?

Jasper sensed her curiosity. "She apparently pines after this man."

"_Pines_ after him?" Edward groaned. "_Any _man with well-built arms strikes her fancy."

"She's driven solely by physicality."

Isabella frowned at their remarks, and added her own, "Maybe it's love at first sight…?" This, initially, spiked their interest, for both men stared peculiarly at her, unblinking. Rolling her eyes, she motioned once toward Rosalie, "Haven't you read in those romantic novels about being struck by love merely upon the sight of someone? _Romeo & Juliet_ is an example." Aw, the play of the centuries. No one took one of Shakespeare's greatest pieces of literature into accord as she did. She'd often brewed up images of her very own Romeo, a man who would die and care for her.

"Yes, but these are _novels_," Edward contradicted, "And we inhabit _reality._"

"But everything written in fiction has been influenced by the real world," Isabella argued, "How can someone write so thoroughly of love without experiencing it for themselves?" It was more of a challenge to him more than a question: why write about love when you know nothing of it? Why create something as odd as "love at first sight" without seeing or ever have experiencing it in life? Her question seemingly had him stumped and rooted to the spot, musing on an answer, maybe?

"I believe she's beaten you," Jasper sniggered quietly.

Edward, unlike before, did not scowl disdainfully or snap at her. Instead, a crooked smile carved onto his marble face; the sunshine practically pouring into his eyes and softening them into a shimmering, innocent jade—not hardened, cold stone, as usual. A blissful sensation fluttered in her stomach, and she felt victorious that she had won their ongoing game of cat and mouse; spitting out insults and mocking one another.

"Do you believe in love?" Edward challenged softly.

She leaned away, somewhat offended by the question—who _wouldn't_ believe in love? "Of course."

"Like the love you share for your fiancé?" Edward continued silently.

Her face drained of color; her bloodstream converting into ice. "Y-Yes…"

"Uh, I can not stand that woman!" Rosalie came sauntering back up to their deck, her lips curled into a savage frown. Slumping down on the lounge seat, she crossed her legs and rapidly began smoothing her fingers through her blonde curls, clearly distressed.

"What woman?"

Her eyes darkened dangerously. "_That woman_ he continuously speaks about!" She threw her arms in the air. "_Amelia_"—she spat out—"is her name, and she's this little brunette that he plans to marry when he arrives in England. She's a devil, I say. He deserves _better_."

"Like yourself?" Jasper taunted.

Rosalie eyed him. "_Maybe_…"

"And you are not going to stop attempting to charm him until he is forced into loving you, am I right?" Edward laughed shortly. Isabella smiled brightly at the smooth, sturdiness of his laugh, a truly jovial sound. Rosalie merely flexed her jaw in response and gazed into the ocean; her chin held up proudly as confidence locked onto her body. Isabella could already tell that she was a persistent woman.

"He'll be mine," she promised.

"A bit possessive, Rose," Jasper mumbled.

"_Possessive_," Edward echoed, all the while throwing Isabella a peculiar look—one that held somewhat of an accusation to it. He was becoming suspicious, she could tell, but… of what? Unnerved, she distracted herself by observing Rosalie, who arched her back and stretched luxuriously in the warm glow of the sun, thus attracting the gazes of several men on the deck. Isabella smirked inwardly at a young wife glaring at Rosalie and jabbing her husband disapprovingly as he stared ravenously at her. How could one woman erupt so much emotional chaos?

"Hello, Mr. Cullen."

Isabella shifted around as Jesse stood before Edward, staring adoringly into his eyes. Michael, taking on glance at Edward, flushed red with—irrational—silent anger, and stormed away. Jesse, clapping her hands together, shimmered with odd excitement as she spoke to each of them now (on a topic that was extremely painful to Isabella. "I can not wait for the wedding between Isabella and Jacob! Oh, I can't wait for when I'm to be wed—"

"Clearly," Isabella mumbled bitterly.

"—… Do you find yourself wishing for a wife, Edward?" Jesse questioned suggestively. His eyes flickered over to meet Isabella's as she quivered, not at all enjoying the hollowness engulfing her stomach. Her teeth pierced down on her lips—an inappropriate habit—and she slowly began nibbling at the tender flesh of them, prompting blood to trickle to the surface.

He shook his head, ripping his gaze away. "Not yet."

"Hmm…" Jesse smiled mischievously. "Maybe you will change your mind soon—"

"Jesse, dear, if he was to marry anyone in this wide world, it mostly certainly _won't_ be you," Rosalie spoke up, her tone a mockery of politeness. She didn't even bother at staring Jesse in the eye, and didn't even seem at all fazed as the brunette, raked with embarrassment, ambled away, her eyes lowered to the ground. All pairs of eyes turned to Rosalie.

"What?" She cocked an eyebrow, blameless.

"Sister," Jasper said sternly, "Must you act like a cobra?"

She beamed, taking it as a compliment. "You think of me as a cobra? How brilliant!"

"No, Rosalie… _not brilliant_," Edward corrected, drawing out the last two words as if he was speaking to an idiotic child. Isabella smiled feebly, further fueling the "sunshine" in his eyes. "Not brilliant," he continued, staring at his cousin closely, "because sooner or later, women with such sour tempers as yours won't be tolerated for long… certainly not by men…"

"I digress," she giggled indulgently, motioning with her head toward a teenage boy who grinned goofily in return.

"I think he meant _mature men_," Isabella explained amusingly.

"Men…" Rosalie now appeared conflicted as her gaze traveled back to the third class deck, where the man had long departed, "Who needs them…"

Isabella snaked her arms around her body, willing the emptiness to disperse. "The ones who desire love."

Both men stared oddly at the wistful looks plastered to the two girls' faces. A serene image flickered across Isabella's mind; a vision of her skipping happily through a meadow of pink and magenta wildflowers, and far in the distance, the shape of a faceless, blurred man is situated, waiting for her with open arms. What a petty daydream, but for the few brief seconds it lasted in her mind… the hollow ache was gone.

* * *

Jasper leafed through the novel, the spine of it groaning in protest. Boredom consumed his mind, forcing him to read a novel that'd he already read before. In truth, nothing on the massive, luxurious ship appealed to him as much as it did others—not the dinner parties, our the smoke-filled rooms when the men huddled around one another, played poker, and drank the bitter brandy. None of it mattered. Not his suite, in which the wood was thoroughly polished and carved, or the bed sheets of warm, fitting wool. Why be given such luxury and not enjoy it, he often thought to himself. After all, in the corrupted society they lived in, there were people of poorer, less fortunate lives that would murder for what he possessed.

"Thinking, I see?"

Startled, Jasper unloosened his fingers, thus dropping the novel. However, standing by the doorway, Alice was situated, her eyes expressive and her hands clasped behind her back in an innocent manner. She was a year younger than him, but from the stories that Rosalie has told, she seems to have outwitted him in wisdom and intuition.

"Deep in thought, yes," he replied, smiling kindly at her.

She cocked her head and smiled sweetly. Jasper studied her closely—how short her curls were, but how they were adorably cropped against her face; her cheeks were prominent and her chin pointed. He could think of her as a magical, enticing figure in a mythical story or fairytale, especially in the way that she stared at people—gazing into their bodies and seeing what they could become in their future. Every time his eyes locked with hers, he could a hard, jade stones streaked with brown. Stone, because her eyes weren't glass—no, Alice wasn't one you could simply see through.

She was a complex, captivating creature…

Shock engulfed him once realizing how easily Alice consumed his thoughts.

"What were you reading?" Alice inquired curiously, before giggling. "Or rather, what were you staring at?"

He grasped the novel off the ground and handed it to her. Her fingers smoothed along the title engraving, a mysterious smile spreading across her beautiful face as she whispered, "_Les Misérables… _Cosette and Marius, love at first sight." Jasper recalled Isabella's remarks about love at first sight, and wondered why it was that women easily perceived love and affection—probably because of their motherly roles in the future or their natural sensitivity.

"I wonder if people can fall in love simply by locking eyes," Alice mused aloud.

"It must be true," Jasper offered, a bit ashamed that he was about to steal Isabella's words, "After all, for someone to have written about love at first sight, they must have known of its power and how true it is."

Alice, still maintaining her genuine smile, tapped her chin thoughtfully. As the agonizing moments ticked by—Jasper studying her every move and blink of the eye—, she shrugged her shoulders dismissively, as if ridding herself of a trivial thought, and sauntered over to the plush sofa he was perched on. Sitting down beside him, she rested the novel on the nearby table and began tapping her foot on the floor. She appeared awkward, an emotion that stunned him seeing as she never really faltered around anyone—not matter what class or ranking. She could be standing in front of a queen and never once fumbled with a word or allow her knees to buckle.

So why was she wavering now?

"Is something the matter, Alice?" Jasper asked, truly concerned for her well-being. She craned her neck, her eyes glassy and glistening—resisting the temptation of sobbing, he could tell. Her mouth opened, preparing to speak, but a deep choke rumbled from her throat and rolled off her tongue. Chest heaving, she leaned forward to stand, but Jasper, too swift, snaked his arm around her shoulder and pressed her frail body closer. Instead of weeping tremendously, she merely cried with salty tears slipping down her flushed red cheeks.

"I f-fear," Alice managed between sputters of tears, "that I am sinking into something terrible."

His eyebrows knotted together. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I can't take this ache in my chest," she clarified, pressing her palm to her chest area, "It's as if someone has taken a knife and carved a hole into my chest. It's all so hollow and… What does it mean? I am sad, maybe? But why so sudden and spontaneously?" She wiped at the wetness smoothed over her cheeks and closed her eyes tightly; several creases forming in her forehead.

"Depression, perhaps?" Jasper supplied.

"Aren't we all depressed," she choked a laugh.

"We're all sad," Jasper murmured, "But not depressed."

After staring at him for several minutes, unblinking, she tipped her head back and released a hearty laugh. "That makes absolutely no sense, Jasper!" Hearing his name slide across her lips caused a pleasant ache to expand in his stomach. "Jasper…" She patted his hand, so firm around her waist, "You can let go now… I'm a big girl… at the moment."

He jerked his arm away, his insides flaming. His heart stopped however, when she stood, bowed, and skipped out of the room with not so much as a goodbye or a thank you. Not so much complaining, but her unpredictable emotions puzzled and frightened him. When she had entered his room, she seemed in perfect balance, and nothing actually occurred that would shove her into a sobbing parade.

Her hazel orbs still plagued his mind. Her touch, so soft. Everything about her always did excite him. She was an extravagant creature. Alice Mary Brandon, a maid working under his family. How could he, Jasper Hale, so easily be swayed into her web of emotions? He felt affectionate toward her, and felt uneasy when she was away from his side; away from his line of sight.

He couldn't begin to understand what his emotions were screaming at him to comprehend.

* * *

During the evening, as the sun began to plunge itself under the sea, Renee and Isabella took a short stroll with Carlisle Hale and his wife, Esme; Isabella being overcome with a nauseas sickness at the sight of the two gazing adorably into one another's eyes, and it didn't help matters as they stood near the deck's railing, overlooking the vast ocean—a picture of love as they embraced each other with the orange-painted sky and the blazing sun etched right behind them, a pure masterpiece. "I love them so dearly," Renee sighed dreamily, gazing wistfully at the couple.

"_Love_ them?" Isabella arched an eyebrow.

"It won't be long before you become such a perfect image," Renee reassured, blind to the lack of affectionate development between her and Jacob. Although Isabella could not blame her mother, she could certainly pout endlessly. But then again, Renee was a woman of denial who would rather see illusion than the cold truth—the illusion being that Jacob and Isabella were truly meant for each other.

"Did you ever have a perfect image?" Isabella inquired gently.

Renee frowned; past pain embedded into her blue orbs. "Once…"

"Can you tell me that love story then?" Isabella pressed, now eager to hear the scandalized story of Charlie Swan, a third class man with little money, and Renee Higginbotham, a woman already courted to be wed and groomed into a proper lady of society. Renee, after staring longingly into the ocean's breezy currents, exhaled a prolonged sigh, before sitting down upon one of the plush, outdoor-seats; Isabella following suit beside her.

"I figure the year was 1895, during early January. I was seventeen and promised to marry Phillip Dwyer, a rich tycoon. The wedding would come in February, early in the year in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In that January, I met a man"—her eyes sparkled dramatically—"named Charlie Swan. He was twenty-two, reckless, but a responsible workingman concentrating on helping his family's financial issues. Of course, we came from separate classes; separate societies. I grew up in a wealthy family, and I am ashamed to say this…" She lowered her eyes to the ground. "Because of how I grew up and was raised, I suppose I held a certain amount of revulsion him—unjust, terrible prejudice.

"But I don't know what happened… after we began warming up to each other, the love just settled in with us. I never even told him of my engagement during the entire one-month affair. The day before my wedding, and we… It was wonderful and enthralling, Isabella!" Renee exhaled another breath, more jubilant this time. "Anyway, I still hadn't informed him that I was going to be married. So as I lay, naked in bed, staring at the ceiling, I tried going through my options… I could runaway with him, or be married and miserable. I was so committed to the first option at that moment, that I thought nothing would stop me from just leaving with him…

"However, I met my mother that evening for supper. She was extremely blissful and content, that I couldn't bear to look at her. I loved my family, and in that moment of vulnerability, I chose the safer of the two…" She smiled at Isabella, however solemn. "It was safe because I was able to bring you up without struggle because of the wealth, and that is all I cared about… You."

Grim fingers laced through Isabella's brown hairs, and blue eyes gazed into pale brown ones—both lost in the love story. "It would have been nearly impossible to raise you if I ran away with Charlie, but… I can't even imagine the look on his face when he realized I was no longer in his life, with no goodbye… I'm sure he read of my wedding in the paper, though."

"Oh, mother…" Isabella, frowning with pity, wound her arms around her mother and clung to her. Although Renee neither wept nor reminisced, the emotional turmoil practically radiated off her body like sunshine in the summer. Once pulled away from each other, Isabella caught sight of something in the corner of her eye, so dangerously close. Startled, she gasped.

Carlisle and Esme sat on the seat adjacent to the one shared between her and Renee; both leaning close to Renee, immensely fascinated. They had heard the entire story, and now, Esme's eyes appeared glassy; her cheeks stained with crimson from the; her nose a delicate shade of red. Carlisle was grimacing, truly moved by the story, Isabella could tell. Seeing their faces, Renee couldn't help but laugh half-heartedly.

"I'm so terribly sorry for eavesdropping," Esme apologized softly, her hand pressed to her chest, "And… that was such a sad story. How could you pick yourself up so easily, and be the way you are today? I wouldn't be able to survive without Carlisle!" They exchanged a look, so filled with emotion that it excited Isabella to know that such a love existed.

Renee smiled feebly. "My daughter… she is how I survived."

"Jasper and Rosalie," Esme recalled, speaking more to herself, "And Edward."

"_Edward?_" Isabella prompted, puzzled.

Esme grinned sheepishly. "Yes, I think of Edward as my other son." She glimpsed at Carlisle. "He is my sister's son, after all. He has no mother now, so I'm trying my hardest to help ease the grief." She rubbed her temple. "I would never call myself a replacement of Elizabeth, but I could sure as _hell_ be his second mother—I _am_ his Godmother."

"How very kind of you," Renee breathed, seemingly astonished.

"It's all I have to offer," Esme replied genuinely, "My _love._"

Isabella droned out their conversation now, truly sickened by the word "love".

* * *

It was dinner, once again, but with less of a crowd lingering around the table, much to Isabella's relief; she wouldn't be able to endure more of their insufferable chatter. Instead, it was now Isabella, Renee, Edna, Victoria, Michael, Jacob, Billy, and Jack (his wife and daughter off somewhere else). Edna and Renee, just as before, gushed manically of the wedding, leaving the four men to discuss other, less "womanly" topics—those topics being the stability of the ship, how a wife should be (although Jacob and Billy dramatically differed in opinion), and of course, their wealth and superiority over the world.

Both conversations lacked depth.

"Are you satisfied with the color?" Edna inquired, staring intensely at Isabella.

She nodded absently, knowing of the coloring of her bridal gown. "Yes." Edna, smiling happily, cast a look at the mute Victoria, who gazed blankly at her own, barely touched meal; eyes glazed over with an empty void to them.

"And how has your day gone, Ms. Blaire?"

Victoria lifted her chin. "Wonderful," she responded acidly.

"Well…" Edna tugged at her silver necklace, visibly uncomfortable. However, her eyes brightened, once again, as Carlisle and Esme strolled toward the table; not to join their party, but merely to say a short hello. Edna's face, of course, was flushed pink at the sight of Carlisle, and Isabella had a vague feeling that she held a vicious animosity toward Esme; that feeling being triggered by envy.

"Hello, Carlisle…" Edna's expression darkened. "Esme."

"Hello," Esme nodded, smiling kindly.

As another exchange of words came, Isabella's face paled as she caught the look on Victoria's face, so filled with outrage. Her dark eyes glared at the couple, her lips pressed into a firm line, and her gaunt cheeks were a patch of red. The veins on her arms protruded as she clenched her fists and her body became rigid and stoic. Isabella was baffled by her behavior.

"Hello, Ms. Blair," Esme greeted finally, her voice, however, quiet.

Victoria nodded once.

"Have a good evening," Carlisle finished awkwardly toward them, before hooking his arm around his fiancée's and sauntering toward another, empty table far away where the lights most shined in the room. Edna sighed wistfully, but it was Renee and Jacob who appeared to have noticed the savageness displayed on Victoria's face.

"What is wrong with you?" Jacob demanded.

Victoria whipped her head toward him, seething as she said, "He was the doctor who aided my husband for a short while… up until his death."

"And…?" Jacob couldn't understand, nor could Isabella.

"Nothing important left to say."

They all stared at her for several moments, attempting to unveil the true meaning of her words, before submitting back into their own conversations. Well, all except Isabella, who couldn't dislodge the sudden flare of dislike that wavered in the actress's direction. Was Victoria blaming Carlisle, an extraordinary doctor, for her husband's demise at the hand's of a sickness that was already most likely to kill him? It was even said in the papers that the moment James—her famous husband—had contracted the deadly cancer, that his death was inevitable. Could she possibly hold the blame on Carlisle?

As Isabella stared into the actress's eyes, the answer spiraled into her head.

Yes… yes she could.

A premonition of sorts lingered in her head; that this emotional stress in Victoria's deteriorating body would soon prove as a thorn in Carlisle's family—and Isabella couldn't help but feel pitiful for both of them: Victoria and Carlisle (along with his family).

This ship wasn't so luxurious anymore.


	4. A Stumble Through Rejection

Disclaimer: Very sorry for the _long _wait. I developed Writer's Block… It sucked.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter IV:**

A Stumble Through Rejection

* * *

**June 16, 1911—Day Three**

Rosalie Hale wandered absentmindedly down the deck, ignoring the murmuring of conversations continuously fluttering all around her. This morning—as the sky remained stained with orange and blue—was _her_ time; a time when the sun barely beamed onto her body and the white clouds lingered in the skies, casting a shadow across the blue, crystalline sea. She needed to be secluded at the moment; need minutes to merely amble around and think about less distressing thoughts in—is that Emmett? Her trail of thought dispersed as Emmett, who was situated on the lower deck, sat on a bench, already grinning up at her; as if expecting her already.

Her heart soared as she sauntered down the steps, all the while ignoring the disapproving stares following her retreating back from the first class deck. Circling around a group of kinds kicking an odd ball, she found her way over to Emmett, perched down beside him, and crossed her arms. Emmett, sporting a simple, brown coat and ripped jeans, was—as always—handsome and nearly flawless, with a sunshiny grin and brilliant, warm eyes.

"Hello, Rose—"

"_Rose?_" she interrupted, flattered.

He grimaced. "You don't want to be called Rose then?"

She shook her head rapidly, smiling widely as she explained, "No, no, no! I don't mind it, I just… It's what my brother calls me by and I've never had anyone follow his example."

Emmett cocked his head, joyful. "You're beautiful… a rose."

Rosalie, eyes wide, allowed her arms to tense. Of course, her cheeks burned crimson, and her heart pounded against the inside of her chest. Breathing heavily, she leaned back against the bench, ignoring the coldness seeping through her thin gown, and gazed into the sky. Emmett followed suit, and nodded at the gentleness of the pale colors and the cool air. Everything was peace-like; a rare occasion.

"Tell me more about your fiancée," Rosalie murmured, wishing dearly for his happiness. In fact, usually, his voice often brightened whenever discussing the various aspects of his soon-to-be wife. But confusion split through her melancholy mood when his lips turned down, forming into a grimace. Was her constant prying turning her into a pest?

"_Amelia_," Emmett began, reluctant, "is bubbly and animated."

She waited, not tearing her eyes away, but he continued staring ahead, apparently done with the conversation. Puzzled, she simply continued to keep quiet and gaze at her fingers as she toyed with her gown's fabric. Not able to bear the deafening silence, she asked, "And her last name?" Although not wanting to admit it, she was observing this woman that she knew almost nothing of. It was an examination to see if she—Rosalie Hale—could easily overcome this woman in personality, attractiveness, and skill.

"Amelia Bristow," Emmett answered offhandedly.

"And what ethnicity is she?"

He gazed toward her now, somewhat puzzled by her extreme curiosity. "I think English, but also with Irish blood."

"Irish…," she echoed.

He smiled warmly, his somber mood dispersing into the air. "What ethnicity are you, besides English blood?"

"French, I suppose," she replied. It might have been a lie, simply for the sake of presenting him with something to further entice him: isn't Paris, located in France, the city of love? Yes, French always added to beauty and exoticness. She briefly pinched her arm, seeing the pale cream course with red, before returning to its previous coloring. Oh, yes, _very _exotic, what with her

"Should I call you Madame Rose, then?" Emmett inquired jokingly. Despite the growing nervousness of his previous brooding, she couldn't conceal the wide smile on her face, nor could she contain the hearty laughed that rolled off her tongue. Both her smile and laughed brought a brilliant grin wavering onto his face, prompting her stomach to flutter uncontrollably.

"If it brings you joy, then yes, you may," she teased.

Emmett smirked.

"Madame Rose," he repeated, the words rolling luxuriously off his tongue.

"Madame Rose," she echoed, finding it just as blissful.

The sun seemed to shine brighter than before.

* * *

Jasper, with Alice trailing closely behind, gingerly entered the room belonging to Edward—Edward, whose eyes were closed in relaxation as his fingers drummed across each piano key. A wave of serenity passed over Jasper at the sound of the harmless melody—one Edward most often played when overjoyed or blissful—being produced. However, shaking his head, he rested a hand on Edward's shoulder.

"What?" the man demanded; annoyed to have been broken from the tune.

Jasper's eyes narrowed. "I have come—"

"With a warning," another voice intervened, and Rosalie came bustling in, the angriest of scowls plastered to her dark expression. Edward, stifling a deep sigh, slid from the bench and stood in front of the three; Alice merely staring on, her eyes swimming with sheer curiosity and patience.

"What warning would this be?"

Jasper frowned. "You're becoming too fond of Isabella."

An ache swelled in Edward's chest; his eyebrows pinching together as her name echoed across his mind. Clutching his heart, he cocked his head and took a staggering step forward, already engulfed by fury, "As a friend."

"No," Rosalie objected, sure of her words. "As a lover."

"I've only known her for two days," Edward denied, but couldn't help but see it as a lie.

"As a mere infatuation then," Jasper offered, "that may turn into…"

Edward's heart began beating violently, already hearing the end of his sentence… _Love_. "It would take years to love someone," Edward hissed, voice lower and flat, "and she'll be gone by the time the ship docks."

"We all know how little she feels for that Jacob Black," Rosalie whispered, eyeing him pointedly. "What if someone gave her a reason to leave him and find a new man to be with?" _Someone like you_, Edward could almost hear her thinking rabidly. Of course, the idea of it seemed desirable: for him and Isabella to leave the ship together—away from the sufferings of society.

"Now you've planted an idea in his head!" Jasper spat, whipping around to glare at his sister.

"And what if I do have feelings for her?" Edward challenged.

"You'll act on them," Rosalie explained, voice nothing but concern and certainty. "You'll ruin her entire life for certain if an affair took place, and the world would despise both of you. I realize how little you would think of it, but what about Isabella? She would carry the burden—of course, she had been for years because of being the product of petty affair, but what would happen with extra distress in her life? Would she have a breakdown? Would she be riddled with depression?" Rosalie crossed her arms. "And all because you couldn't control your own manly desires."

Edward clenched his teeth. "That would never happen—"

"You don't understand the female mind, though," Rosalie amended. "How emotional we are."

"I understand," Jasper muttered, exchanging a glance with Alice, who gazed at the floor, mortification pressing into her body; face flushed with cherry red.

"What do you want me to do then?" Edward whispered, somewhat pained.

Rosalie's eyes flashed, for a second, with pity. "Stay away from her."

"And if I can't…?"

"… Watch her life crumble."

"_Crumble?_" Edward's eyebrows furrowed. "Isn't that a bit melodramatic?"

Slender, cold fingers landed on his shoulder, and he stared down at the extended arm belonging to Alice. She gazed up at him with a depth coloring in her eyes that truly made him wonder whether she was a mere mortal or some form of a Goddess; Alice, who always found a way to be much older and wiser beyond her youthful years. Her small stature didn't say much, but she was a year older than Edward himself—eighteen, to be precise. But the emotion in her eyes terrified him.

"It's not melodramatic when you're a woman living in a society where women are nothing but an object to look at it."

* * *

Isabella ambled around her room, seemingly oblivious to everything. Her mind raced with haunted images of Edward; her thoughts playing his name over and over, and the words he had so melodiously spoken to her. The candlelight and the few lamps cast brightness throughout the room that brought her in and out of her chaotic state. Blowing out a heavy sigh, she landed on the bed, allowing the sheets to twine around her hands.

"You need air," Petunia supplied; she had bustled in, a neatly folded pile of lavender-colored towels in her arms. She set them gingerly on the table. Smoothing her hands down her gown, she gazed pointedly at Isabella, then toward the door. "_Air _would be out there—fresh air, I mean."

"Fresh air," Isabella repeated, giving a slight nod to Petunia.

Once leaving the maid and entering the decks of the outside, the ocean breeze and the salty scent rushed to her head, scattering the abundance of thoughts trapped in her head. The morning had ended, and it was not evening—2:30, maybe. The sun shined brightly behind several layers of blank, shapeless clouds; the air cool. Strands of brown hair caressed her cheeks as wind howled and danced with them.

"Good evening," was often spoken to her as she strolled carelessly down the deck.

Strangers, she thought sadly. None of them were Edward, or even Alice, who Isabella very much wanted at her side at the moment—a moment of vulnerability as these strange, newfound feelings snared her heart and caused it to push more warm blood throughout her body. No way of staunching it seemed to find her mind, too jumbled with disheveled thoughts. Promulgating a deep sigh, she managed to keep the slight depression at bay and continued down the deck, shoulders inappropriately slouched. Someone promptly bumped into her.

"Excuse me," she apologized, a knee-jerk reaction as she whipped around, smiling kindly.

"It's alright, miss."

The man standing—or rather, towering above her—produced the oddest aura: one mirroring the security and comfort she had always hoped for. Of course, Renee was the primary giver of such a sensation, but it felt as if another part didn't exist—a piece of the puzzle that had been lost. His lukewarm, brown orbs glistened under the blanket of sunshine caressing their side of the ship's deck; still, eyes aged and worn. The sweetest of smiles remained on his worn face, pushing her smile to widen without reason. What was this feeling, this unfamiliar emotion that planted her in place, frozen?

"Hello," she greeted, needing to touch him as she held out her hand. Shaking hands, she noticed his light grip, barely alive—not strong and sturdy as she'd imagine it would be. Moments lingered between them, with Isabella being unable to produce words. The man noticed and spoke first, his voice, too, withering away with—it seemed—age.

"Hello… _miss_. My name's Charlie Swan"—something familiar, she noted—"also known as First Officer Charlie Swan." The authority that should have been there didn't lace with his words. Instead, his strong tone remained dull, lifeless. "Your name…?" He supplied her with the right response.

"Isabella…" Her words fell away, crumpling into nothing.

_Charlie Swan_…

His name echoed across the edges of her fallen mind. Of course! Renee spoke of him as her lover—the affair she engaged in while she was a soon-to-be bride to the rich Phillip Dwyer! Her blood pulsed coldly through her then, the aching in her chest seeming empty. Nervousness gripped her very body, not unlatching. This man standing before was her true father—the reason for Phillip Dwyer throwing away his marriage to Renee after those long years of doubt and perhaps heartbreak.

Isabella teetered momentarily, convulsing; pulse jagged, heart threading only cold blood throughout her trembling frame. A dark conflict clouded her pale brown eyes, converting them into a dark, hazy coloring.

"I—"

Her words broke off. Edward strode down the deck, Alice lingering several paces behind. An escape! Mumbling an apology, Isabella sprinted away from her true father, staggering slightly as the numbness spread through her legs. Alice omitted to further venture away, eyes trained to the floor, and Isabella found Edward stoic, a statue, when she caught up to him, keeping pace.

"Hello." A sweet smile carved onto her face, proving that she was willing to be kind, patient.

Edward's stony expression remained intact as he nodded once; lips strewn into a firm line. Something was terribly wrong. Frowning, Isabella rubbed her arms, not comprehending the chill—partially from her discovering her father—expanding through her body. She remembered, in school, rejecting a young boy who offered her a daisy—a simple, harmless _daisy_! The expression on his face was exactly what she could feel playing on her face. Did that mean something convenient to her?

"Well… It's rather nice weather, isn't it?"

He shrugged.

"Is everything alright?" She was genuinely concerned. His shifty personality was beginning to unnerve her, stripping her of her once intelligent mood—he made her feel stupid, especially because of his unpredictable nature. She glimpsed behind for Alice, millions of questions in her eyes, yet the petite woman only stared downward, hands clasped behind her back.

"Everything is well," he responded, voice crisp.

The pain of rejection splintered through her barriers. "Oh…"

"Goodbye, Miss Swan," he said without looking at her, before making a sharp turn, entering the ship's lounge area, Alice trailing behind. Isabella halted, arms limp at her sides; eyebrows pinched together. He blatantly ignored her, acting as though she meant nothing to him—the friend she wanted to become couldn't evolve now that… he hated her. Something deep within Isabella shattered.

Edward _loathed_ her.

Isabella _needed_ him.

* * *

The sun dipped behind the surface of the lapping waves. Isabella observed it through the window, thankful that Renee decided upon a table near the windows—the ocean, a beautiful distraction to her obscured mind. Jacob talked animatedly about topics she cared little for—mainly for the men, especially Michael, who paid close attention—, while she used all her willpower on not glancing across the table again, where Edward was situated, his family also seated around the table. A sigh sounded from her mouth, either dreamy or exasperated, she couldn't decipher.

The grief was devastating, but her longing was worse.

Again, her eyes trailed upward. Edward only stared at his meals, lips moving as he spoke quietly with Jasper. She tilted her head, straining to hear, yet Jacob's boisterous voice, along with every other table, drowned out Edward's silky voice. Puckering her lips in disappointment, she leaned back against the chair, shoulders slumping, and began rolling one of the pearls of her necklace; the smooth surface gliding across her fingers.

"Are you okay, Isabella?" Renee asked, whispering.

"Just drowning in boredom," Isabella replied, smiling falsely, mentally adding, _and sorrow. I want to kill myself, hooray!  
_

Downing the bitter wine, she allowed her eyes to flutter open and close as exhaust from the evening overlapped the soured pain sullying her slowly brightening emotions—somewhat blissful because of having food in her system, after having nothing the entire day. It was nearing midnight, too, for she could see the clouds tumbling away from the moon, displaying its full, silvery body: a full moon.

Eyes burning into her and, while excited, she looked back up, hoping to see the glassy emerald of _his _eyes, yet her gaze landed on deep azure ones. Jasper stared at her briefly, but when their eyes locked, he stared back down, her following (although it was her who flushed red with meaningless mortification). However, she had managed to capture the turmoil of emotions shimmering in his irises, so clear and glass-smooth.

Pity… shame… understanding.

Curious, she gazed back up, examining Jasper and Edward, her intuition kicking in.

Oh, she hoped to God that there was a different reason for Edward ignoring her so rudely and hurtfully, and it was something such as those cheesy yet beautifully romantic stories she usually read. Because… she knows how much she wants him.

* * *

**AN: **I'll proofread later—I'm about to leave, and I want to put this out there, for you guys who actually enjoy it. And a question came up as to why her last name was _Higginbotham _instead of _Swan_, and here's the answer: Charlie, as you can see, is in the story, so… well, they couldn't have the same last name, and Charlie Higginbotham (if I would've switched it) is kind of… awkward, I guess? Anyway, that's your answer. Sorry for the shortness of the chapter. 


	5. Under The Stars

AN: Here's some love for all of you who are enjoying it.

**Chapter V:**

Under The Stars

Isabella tapped lightly on his shoulder, the sweetest of smiles plastered on her face. The hallway was near empty, with most men drowning themselves in brandy in the other rooms and the women would be lounging around, gossiping harshly about _passé_ people. However, Isabella found it marvelous that she caught up to Edward, once unapproachable during dinner. His eyes never once locked with hers, despite the vast amount of times hers flickered to his.

Edward swiveled around, the same morbid expression painted on his face. She clasped her hands behind her back, a show of innocence, and quietly asked—because of the whispering girls lingering closely by—, "Are you alright? I realize I've asked this already, but I'm… concerned?" It wasn't meant to be a question, yet she couldn't say the right choice of words. Would being concerned for him bring the anger within his heart?

"I'm fine," he mumbled sourly, barely acknowledging her as he shifted on his heel, ready to march off like some army soldier. Her hand, however, dug into his arm, halting his movement. The bitter display on his face dramatically hardened, but she wouldn't back down.

"Is it something I've done?" She peered deeper into his eyes. "I'm your friend, right?"

His body tensed, she could tell, and his next words were a slap to the face. "We aren't friends, Bella, only acquaintances—"

"_Bell-a_?" Her eyes brightened drastically. "Is that a nickname for me?"

"I didn't… mean… Well…" Edward sighed, cursing through his teeth, and tore his arm out of her tender grasp. She frowned at the jerky motion, somewhat infuriated. "We're not friends." His emerald eyes splintered through her, ruthless. "Quit bothering me with your useless talk." Scowling once more at her, he trudged gruffly down the hallway, shoulders slouched. Others wisely ambled out of his vicious path.

Isabella choked back the rampage of emotions storming through her. Not friends, he says? Yes, maybe they did share few words—meaningless conversations—, but the heavy space between them, a space meant for those not fully developed in a relationship, was never really there; as if their relationship, either friend or lover, was always meant to live without awkwardness or stumble. Perhaps she had been the only one to sense it, though. Or maybe her wild, _womanly _emotions were conjuring naïve fantasies of affection…

She almost felt disgusted with herself, but realized… how_ dependent _she was.

Isabella Swan actually _needed _someone.

* * *

Rosalie's eyes fluttered open, the past sleepiness vanishing. A cold breeze brushed softly against her bare arms; dress sweeping under her feet. Her cheek was pressed against something hard, and with a shock, she jerked to the side, stunned and embarrassed to have realized that she had fallen asleep on Emmett's hard shoulder. He smirked at her, amusement glowing in his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry—"

"It's alright," he murmured, "it was nice."

"I bet Amelia's accidentally fallen asleep on your _lap_ before, though," Rosalie teased, trying to eliminate the mortification lodged in her heart. Emmett shrugged, eyes wandering to the moon-sheathed skies. She, too, gazed upward, into the stars, burning so brightly. The Fates stared down at her, shining and promising. The deck was empty. She remembered sauntering down to see if Emmett was anywhere around, and, to her astonishment, he had been perched on one of the benches, seeing into nothing it seemed: the blankness of night.

And then, she had fallen into a deep sleep, the side of her face pressed against him.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"You're cold," Emmett stated bluntly.

"No, I'm—"

She swallowed her words when his warm, wool jacket rested on her shoulders, actually comforting. His sweet scent lingered. Her slender fingers curled into the fabric, wishing to keep the fragrance forever; seal it away in a jar and lock it safely in a jewel-encrusted chest. She shook her head, sensing the insanity of her thoughts—insanity caused by the fact that the first man she's ever wanted, after so many suitors, is the one that _had _to belong to someone else.

_Another woman_, she wanted to spit.

Amelia Bristow—oh, how Rosalie wanted to rip the girl's hairs out of her scalp. Then again, such a stunt would sadden Emmett greatly, and she didn't want that at all. She enjoyed seeing the always happy, pleasant Emmett: his calm moments, his boisterous ones, the more morbid ones, and yet, during each time, that same grin remained engraved onto his flawless face.

Spectacular.

"Your jacket's very warm," she murmured, eyes closing under the heat of it. "Thank you."

"Rosalie…?"

Her name whispered from his lips in a low mumble, curious; she opened her eyes, concerned when he refused to meet her gaze. "Yes?"

"How many men have asked for you hand in marriage?"

What? Her mouth fell open slightly, heart smashing to the floor in—what else?—mortification. This notion seemed to prove something, for Emmett chuckled mirthlessly; emotionally devoid almost. "It makes sense, after all," he continued in the same gloomy, ghost of a voice, "you're beautiful, intelligent, and always enjoyable to be around." His eyes finally wandered up, all the way across her body, to meet her eyes, questioning. "Why haven't you ever said yes to any of them?"

"Maybe I have," she huffed without reason, crossing her arms.

His eyebrows furrowed. "You have?"

"Well…" After brief contemplating on lying, she sighed, defeated. "No." She glared at him. "But I can! Anytime I want!"

"That's nice."

Rosalie frowned, displeased with the twisted smile on his face: _twisted_ because it didn't make any sense. His expression was crumpling into nothing. Mentally cursing, she slipped the jacket off and handed it back to him. Wordlessly, she stood—ready to make her dramatic exit.

"Where are you going?"

"Where _I_ belong. Not _you_."

Holding her chin high, she prepared to strut away, however, a hand clutched hers, guiding her back down. Her head spun; stomach nauseous. "Rosalie," Emmett muttered, his arms winding around her shoulders, tugging her to him. Without thinking, she buried her face into his muscled chest, enjoying the sensations, all intense, coursing violently through her, alerting each and every emotion of the situation.

Emmett leaned back, his hands guiding to cup her face, forcing their eyes together.

"What about Amelia?"

He smirked. "Who?"

"Emmett," she began, scorning, but his lips pressed to hers, desperate and warm. She responded—grasping at his shirt and threading her fingers through his messy hair. As she kissed his neck, a giggle rolled off her tongue when he nibbled teasingly at her ear—his other hand caressing her cheek and traveling down her neck, and then to her waist where he clutched her to him. Their bodies melded together, unyielding.

"Love at first sight," she mumbled through the kisses she planted on him: his cheeks, his neck, his chest, and of course, his lips.

"Rose…"

"That's Madame Rose to you, sir," she joked, pulling away.

He gritted his teeth, somewhat agitated by her antics, for he wanted to touch her again—to kiss her. She rolled her eyes and leaned in again, their lips crushed against one another; hot breath mingling when he opened his mouth, tongue glazing across hers. The burning sensation seemed almost impossible, emotions she'd never once felt guiding her limbs. Emmett was clearly a more experienced kisser. After all, she'd never once kissed anyone else before, making this her first. Yet… Amelia had touched these lips. Amelia belonged in his heart. He couldn't very well have forgotten her, right? The idea was madness. Amelia… always in his heart, his mind.

Amelia.

Amelia Bristow.

Emmett and Amelia.

Amelia and Emmett.

… Emmett.

"Stop," she muttered, softly pushing against his chest. He released her, the feral hunger in his darkening the once light brown-coloring of his orbs. His lips curled into a frown, confusion sweeping away the dark lust. "This isn't right."

"Why?" Emmett demanded, eyes narrowing, "because I'm too poor, is that it—?"

"No," she snapped, breathing unevenly, "it's wrong because you're engaged to be married, and I doubt less than a week on a ship could simply change your mind. Unless you're a heartless man, it would make sense." She covered her mouth with her hand, containing a sob, and leaned over her legs, completely on the verge of weeping. "You still love_ her_."

Silence followed.

"There's my answer," Rosalie murmured, ready to make her leave.

"I don't love Amelia," Emmett muttered. She paused, eyes locked on his rigid form. He continued staring blankly at the ground, seemingly contemplating something, for the conflict in his eyes was evident. Finally, he spoke again, "We were both reckless, Amelia and I. She left for England and I wanted to—in basic sense—find a way to continue our ties together. Marriage seemed _harmless_. How horribly… devastatingly… wrong I was."

"Devastatingly?" She frowned. "Do you find me devastating? Did you _ever _love Amelia?"

Emmett finally looked at me, pained. "I suppose."

"It's yes or no."

"I'm not even sure."

"You're not sure about anything right now, am I right?"

He didn't cringe from the venom pooling from her words and tone. "I'm sure of one thing, Rosalie, and that is… that I…" He caressed her cheeks; she flinched slightly, yet couldn't look away from the intensity in his eyes. "I love you. I don't care if I've only known you for a short few days, it doesn't matter. I can feel the burning in my heart—the longing, the want, the _need_. It's as if you've become my oxygen, the only way of sustaining my life is _you._ Hell, I'd rather my mother die than you! It's almost unbearable. All of it, these emotions. I once considered love simple. You love someone and nothing else… You've managed to capture _all _my emotions, making it impossible to leave your presence now… Rosalie, I can't lose you—"

His words were cut short to warm lips meeting his in a fiery crash of passion and tears.

* * *

Jacob opened Isabella's room, his calmness washing away. She wasn't here, where she belonged. The sheets of the bed remained untouched and still. Everything was in order. He glanced wearily at the clock, striking midnight. He couldn't very well search the massive ship for her. Absently, he reached into his pocket, caressing the gift he was going to present to her. His head felt heavy, tangled, from the alcohol.

Before he could exit, low whispers sounded from the other room.

"I can't believe Isabella, the whore."

He gritted his teeth, yet leaned toward the barely open door, peeking through. Inside the room, Jesse Stanley lingered on the loveseat, smirking smugly at a young maid with blue eyes and a fierce expression. What happened to have given Isabella the title of "whore"? Fury rose within his heart as he strained to hear their conversation.

"She follows him around, always obsessing," the maid hissed, "I've witnessed it!"

"I can't blame her though," Jesse sighed, the longing in her voice evident, "Edward Cullen is the handsomest man I've ever seen."

Edward, the bastard. Jacob couldn't help but clench his fists. Isabella followed Edward Cullen around the ship? Obsessing? Infuriated, he stormed out of the room, his body shaking with unsuppressed rage. Isabella shouldn't be so affectionate to other men. How would that display Jacob's authority over her? Poorly, is how.

He needed to fix this.

* * *

Isabella felt the raw emotion of anxiety stabbing at her. The brightness of the dinning room was near blinding, the morning sunny. The meaningless chatter enveloped her entire body. Jacob's eyes burned into her face. Everyone seemed oblivious the thick tension lingering between them. It was morning, the sky golden from the early awakening of the sun. She couldn't sleep. Not after Jacob's tremendous fit of rage and pure loathing.

"_I can't believe you!_" and "_You whore!_" were two phrases clumsily tossed around. She remembered the way his massive form quivered, the outrage almost unbearable it seemed. Apparently, he had finally taken to being suspicious of her motives; of being around Edward constantly, hovering in his shadow. She pleaded and cried, saying how she cared for Edward's well-being—that Edward had become heavily depressed, having been consumed by nightmares of his dead mother. Of course, it was all a fabricated lie, yet Jacob's stormy mood dimmed down and he had finally left.

Well, not after tearing her bed sheets apart and breaking one of her necklaces that had been on the table beside the bed. Luckily, it was one of the more superficial necklaces that Renee had insisted on buying years back.

Edward and his two soon-to-be cousins, Jasper and Rosalie, sat across the table. Jasper remained the stoic statue, as always, while Rosalie seemed truly overwhelmed by bliss. Her usually deep-set azure orbs twinkled under the stream of sunshine. Warily, Isabella's eyes traveled to Edward. His back was taut, form strewn into a proper sit. However, his expression was… dangerous; frightening.

Jacob glared at him, hatred fresh.

She nearly choked on the air when Edward's eyebrows knotted together, glaring—glaring directly at Jacob without care. Jasper glanced between the two, bemused, while the few others at the table remained unaware of the animosity.

"Jacob," Isabella cooed, attempting to distract him, "would you like more of your meal. You've barely touched it." That will please him. Be the proper wife that rarely spoke outside of her brainwashed mind—only to speak to the husband.

Edward's eyes softened once hearing her words. He stared down at the tablecloth, face flushed with white as if he wanted to vomit.

"What a whore," Jesse whispered.

She snapped her head up, startled, but it wasn't _her _Jesse was speaking about with some girl that Isabella couldn't recall. Both the naïve girls were staring intensely at Esme, who smiled at her two children and niece as she strolled by. Isabella strained to hear their conversation, slightly angered by the insult on the kind mother, Esme. Luckily, Edward, Rosalie, and Jasper didn't hear.

"It sure didn't take Esme long to find a new husband—someone _wealthier_—after Charles died," Edna seethed, leaning toward the two girls. "She became pregnant almost instantly, also."

"Such a common whore," the unknown girl scorned.

Jesse smirked. "She belongs in a brothel."

"Indeed."

Isabella closed her eyes briefly, not understanding anything anymore. She rubbed her temples, fingers massaging the scalp. An intense anxiety clenched her heart. Edward worriedly frowned at her, their eyes locking for a split second, before he gazed down at his meal, Isabella mimicking his motion. Rosalie finally caught on and, much to Isabella's befuddlement, scowled scornfully, deep-colored orbs hardening.

"It seems there are whores just scattered about this ship."

Isabella's ears burned. Her heart thudded against her chest. Three sets of eyes were scrutinized on her form. Edna, Jesse, and the nameless girl each glared venomously at her, their shallow infuriation stirred once more. This time, their target of nasty insults was Isabella only. It seemed the entire world despised her at the moment. Edward's emotions were a tangled web of pity and disgust for the poor soon-to-be wife, probably, and others simply found her annoying—clinging to his side, and the switching over to Jacob once the handsomer and richer one was gone.

She lifted the glass of water and sipped some, the cool liquid pouring down her throat and temporarily washing away the nervousness.

"Isabella," Renee cooed from across the table, fingers trembling in excitement, eyes brightened. "I've decided to change the fabric of the bridesmaids' dresses from burgundy to a simple, pale pink. Burgundy seems too harsh a color." She shook her head disapprovingly, despite being the one who had plucked out the color from the long row of choices they had found.

"Brilliant," she replied mechanically.

Jacob's fingered tightened around the glass of champagne, clearly objecting the color, but opting to ignore his displeasure and smile instead. "That's a beautiful and smart choice, Renee." Isabella knew he was lying. His knuckles always turned paper white. He was remorseful of lying, and to dim this guilt, his limbs contracted, tightening; the way his dark fingers grasped the glass, threatening to shatter it to tiny fragments.

"Why pink?" Edward asked quietly. She leaned forward, unintentionally linked to the lyrical words that spiraled around in her a hypnotic dance. All she wanted was to embrace him, kiss him, caress him, and marry him. However, all were impossible and useless. She was going to be Isabella Black. Nothing would stop such an event from happening.

"Isabella loves the color," Renee responded gleefully.

Isabella looked up sharply, eyebrows pinched together. "No, mother, _you _love the color. It is lovely, but… not ideal."

"Not ideal?" Renee blanched.

"No…"

"Nonsense!"

Isabella sighed. "Nonsense, of course. I mean, it is only _my _wedding. It'd be entirely ridiculous for _me_ to plan any of it."

"_I_ would allow you to, if you were to be my wife."

The conversation hushed. Everyone stared blankly at Edward, all hearing the implication in his statement. If Isabella were to marry him, he would allow her to do whatever she wanted. Jacob fumed. Jasper and Rosalie exchanged brief apprehensive glances with one another. The nameless girl and Jesse giggled at the crimson blushed burning to life under Isabella's cheeks. She looked down at the tablecloth, a smile tugging at her lips as her heart fluttered. Renee cleared her throat awkwardly, and all eyes strayed away from Edward once she continued speaking of the wedding again.

All eyes except for that of Jacob's. He gripped the edge of the table. His teeth grinded against one another. The outrage just poured from his body. Isabella leaned away. Edward ignored him, head cocked the other way, setting up some mindless chatter with Jasper (who in turn appeared deeply uncomfortable under the tension).

Oh, God…

Disaster was settling on the winds. Not even the golden sunset could cull any sense of tranquility. They were each trapped, seized within the ship's metal body, and escape would only be the port, docking, and never seeing one another again. Isabella shall be married, fitted with a pure white gown, and joined under God's presence with Jacob. The skies would be a collision of dark clouds. Not even the sun would wish to visit the wedding.

Nor did Isabella want to either.


	6. An Act Of Atonement

_You're a part time lover and a fulltime friend..._

**Chapter VI:**

An Act of Atonement

The day was a sluggish-pace, and Isabella could only blow a breeze at herself with the flower-patterned fan in her loose grip. The day, since several hours ago, already rose to blistering hot temperatures that burned her pale flesh. In fear of the skin reddening—the pain of it always incredibly excruciating—, Isabella steered away from the areas of the deck where the sunshine poured into. Alice kept a steady pace beside her, actually _enjoying_ the cascading rays caressing her tiny little body.

"I love that exotic, dark-colored look that some women possess from the sun," Alice chirped, smiling kindly at Isabella, who returned it with her own sugary-sweet grin that would make any man swoon on their unsteady feet. Well, all but Edward, who continued ignoring her; seeing her as nothing but a spirit who took up too much space, which, on this massive _boat_, made no sense.

"I do, too."

Alice instantly detected the wistful voice. "Are you still solemn over Edward?"

"_What_?" Isabella halted in her tracks and towed Alice to the side of the deck, still under the shade of the canopy. Although the black-haired maid blinked innocently, those deep-set pools of hazel held nothing but deceit and mischief. "Alice, tell me how you know about this… dilemma."

"I know about your feelings for him—"

"How would you know that?!" Isabella barked.

"Oh, it's immensely obvious," Alice countered, flicking her hand dismissively at the woman's flamingly frustrated expression, "the way you gaze at him as if Cupid had struck you with his love-making golden arrow. How sourly hurt you are by his lack of attention over you." She playfully pinched Isabella's cheeks, flushing the skin with a bright pink. "It will all go swimmingly sooner or later. Just you wait."

The younger woman, however, remained displeased, somewhat mortified. "Am I that immeasurably noticeable with it?"

"You literally _swoon_ when he passes by."

"I—"

"And not to mention the starry-eyed, open-mouthed expression practically _reserved_ for him."

"Alice, you need to—".

"Oh, I can imagine those _raunchy_ dreams you have at night—"

"ALICE!" Isabella cried, clasping a hand over the shorter woman's mouth; words muffled under her gloved palm. "Alice, I understand now, thank you." Releasing her hand, she smoothed it down her side and fixed her face to appear more content and less distressed. Alice smirked knowingly and, from afar, Rosalie stood from a place on one of the benches and called, rather obtusely, her name.

"I have to go." Bowing, Alice darted off to her mistress.

Isabella, knowing that she needed to boil down her emotions before they explode, wandered in the other direction, hoping to find Edward and have a serious, not at all harsh or disruptive conversation with him regarding these particular… feelings of… lust, passion, need, compassion. Biting her bottom lip in an inappropriate habit, she ambled more hurriedly into the ship's hallways, hoping to find him in his room.

The moment she stood in front of his room, the door closed, a harmless tinkling of piano music filled her head. It was a sweet and tender song that floated in the air, and she could imagine the light flutter of her eyes; the little miniature Cupids prancing in the air, hovering around her head. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tentatively opened the door and softly shut it behind her, the wood creaking.

Edward, who had been leaning against the piano and completely consumed by his work, stiffened, his entire back erect; fingers stopping on the keys, producing a drawn-out proportion of a soft-sounding key. He turned around on the bench, his lips curving down into a deep grimace. Lifting her chin with a show of confidence, Isabella strutted over so that she was positioned right beside him.

Edward, sliding to his feet, stepped away from her. "And what are you doing in here without permission?"

"I understand," Isabella retorted in an almost sarcastic, yet soft tone, "that you do not want me in your presence, but I want to handle certain matters between us in an adult manner—"

"_We _have no 'matters' together," he responded haughtily, "none at all."

"Well," she replied smoothly, trying to maintain her calm demeanor, "then _I do_, and I am here to sort them out." She pushed the piano bench away as to create actual space between them. "I just wanted to say how…" Clenching her eyes shut momentarily, she could only swallow her anxiety before finishing with a short breath, "_attracted_ I am to you, which I'm sure isn't astounding, seeing as every other woman on this ship is…"

Edward flexed his fingers. His eyes were tight. Even his frown seemed _forced_. He swayed for a few seconds before composing his previous taut form and balling his hands into firm fists. "Is that all?" he inquired petulantly.

"No, that's the least of all." Isabella was _very _aware of the bright crimson coloring her cheeks, but with little sense of courage inside her, continued on in the same level voice, "You can not even begin to comprehend the affect you have on me _emotionally_. You could have been an ugly, ogre-like man wobbling on one leg onto this ship and I would have been just affected merely because of your… freedom… your no restrictions-like attitude.

"I want so much of that." Her eyes burned for the threat of tears, and she _still _continued, albeit in a quivering voice, "You are so fiercely independent and unafraid and it is everything I want to be. To just… just… _Oh, for crying out loud_"—she nearly blanched at her own choice of words—"be exactly like you! All of you is affecting everything I've worked for on this ship! My marriage, my status, my _concentration_!"

"And I'm very sorry to here that!" Edward retorted, stomping his foot on the floor. "But even if I did have any feelings for you, I'd never risk your position in society and appropriateness or mine! You'll be ruined. I'm not going to take the blame if such a thing occurred—you being shunned by the men and women surrounding you. No more social events, no more shiny palaces and mansions…"

Isabella threaded her trembling fingers through her brown tendrils. "I don't care about any of that."

"I can hear it in your voice," he responded silkily, the grimace set on his handsome face, "the denial of your nature. I can't blame you. You've been modeled into the perfect social woman of wealthy status, and it took control of your brain at an early age. It's wired your brain and commanded you. But I applaud how you managed to keep control of your voice."

"I'm not like them," she murmured pathetically, blinded by the fogginess of tears coating her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her gloved hand. Edward remained unfazed by her emotional turmoil. "I will _never_ be them."

He shook his head pitifully. "You already are…"

"No!" Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the image of a stubborn child bringing upon a hell-raiser of a tantrum. "I'm not going to stand here and let you degrade me with your prejudice! I know how I am, and know how capable I am of making my own choices. I'm not afraid of losing social standards. I don't care how people think of me. I could do well without these clothes." She gestured to her sparkly gown. "I could go on wearing pants from the sewers and not care, so long as I have my independence."

"When you marry _Jacob Black_"—Edward spat the name with raw malice—"your independence will be gone. You'll be well-behaved, you'll obey everything he commands, and never think outside your own mind. And over time, all you'll know is how to be your husband's proper wife, and nothing more."

Isabella worked to gain sense in her clouded mind. His ominous words swirled around her head in a tangled mess. Her throat tightened, swelled. A heavy tinge of terror laced through her nerves at the imaginative image of herself wiping her sweaty forehead, three or five miniature Jacob's rowdily twirling and screaming around her; the husband, of course, absent. But she was his wife. She obeyed—she cooked, cleaned, and stayed only inside the house while he "worked" (or, in other words, drowned himself in unruly alcoholic beverages of the early evening).

"Why are you saying this?" Her words slipped from her mouth in a careless, monotonous fashion. In the mirror across the room, she spotted her reflection; placid-like yet embittered expression; deeply-etched scowl.

Edward merely frowned down at her. "I'm speaking the truth. Are you finished here?"

"Yes," Isabella mumbled cynically, and with a turn of her heel and a swirl of her dress, she stormed out of the room, conscious of his eyes trained on her retreating back. Slamming the door, the walls rattled with vibrations of animosity. Several women hovering near whispered harshly to one another. Her ears were hot with rage and embarrassment, each battling against each other for control.

The outrage won the battle. Her frosted heart melted. The demon of a woman inside her awoke. Passion—not passionate love, but _fiery infuriation—_burned in her head. Edward Cullen loathed her existence, yet why did he give her such heavy warnings of her future? And why, oh, why, did he continually through her glances from across the dinner table? She once thought women were confusing creatures, but men, she now thought, were the true puzzling ones—their zealous habits of losing focus on emotions; their inability to be insightful.

Renee explained that women, when making decisions, used intelligence and emotions at the same time. She then said to Isabella that men, in time of choice, either thought with knowledge, and if not knowledge, an emotional approaching: never both simultaneously.

But Isabella didn't concern herself with understanding Edward. She just wanted to decipher his exact feelings toward her. And, as a woman, her clever yet demonic mind would conjure up a plan; a plan she once heard Jesse giggling about because she, too, had done it before—although the outcome held no promise for the plan succeeding, seeing as Michael still ignored her.

… Isabella Swan would bring envy into Edward's heart.

During that evening's supper, Isabella chewed on her bottom lip in nervousness. Jacob chatted boastfully with Jack Stanley about hunting. Edward sat beside his soon-to-be uncle, Carlisle. Esme and Carlisle, whenever locking eyes, melted away together in adoration and true love. Her tongue soured; eyes bulging in brief jealousy. But her mind invoked the confidence necessary for the storm to come.

Allowing her hand to drop from her lap, she entwined her fingers with Jacob's. He paused shortly in his conversation, body stiffening in a brief paralysis of astonishment, before smiling widely and continuing on; dark orbs glittering. She couldn't deny that if his ferocious hunger for dominance and his unfathomable lack of self-control (over his moody anger) didn't exist, she may have loved him.

But Jacob Black was a man of dark vanity, high self-importance, and outrageously unrestrained fury. His sisters were bumbling idiots; their minds only set on a respectable—and wealthy—marriage with a millionaire and the latest fashion of the year. For Heaven's sake, they each even had their individual cigarette holders (an increasingly popular idea for women to possess them) melded of fine and _expensive _jade gemstone!

Isabella leveled her shoulders to be squared together, her chin lifted upward in a high esteem of confidence. If one were to catch a glimpse of her eyes, they'd see dazzling and near black _brown _irises; a shadow cast across them. Not even the exceedingly bright dinning room could illuminate the sinister expression playing across her face.

Wordlessly, she plucked a loose strand of hair hanging limply in front of Jacob's eyes, and smoothed it back with the other tresses. He grasped her hand in a tender, thankful squeeze, and held it tightly under the table. The sunshine beamed into the room from behind them. Despite her conviction that she did not love Jacob—alas, a small part of her cared for him—, her heart fluttered; fingers warmed in his consoling hand.

Edward lifted his eyes to catch their arms, below the surface of the table. The jade orbs hardened into stone. She felt her throat raw itself from the twinge of remorse splinter through her chilled blood; remorse for his suffering under her antics and guilt for using Jacob as nothing more than a meager asset to a greater plan of hers.

A plan that _succeeded_—succeeded in proving Edward's precise feelings toward her.

"Jacob," she cooed in a soft voice, in which he cocked his head to gaze pleasantly at her, "may I retreat to my rooms? I feel quite exhausted for some strange reason." In fact, she did feel fatigued; her cheeks losing color, her spirit flustered. Jacob, shortly pressing his lips tenderly against her forehead, nodded, and with a small curtsey to the table members—the men bowing their heads and smiling thinly—, Isabella strolled sweepingly out of the room, the chatter leaving her ears.

Her destination, however, was the ship's front deck.

Because the weather was amiable—pouring sunshine and warmth, and lapping waves that created a soothing sound—, the deck wasn't too empty, as she'd hoped; but because it was supper time, only a few, primarily lovers, strolled about, smiling brightly at the distant horizon. Isabella leaned over the railing, her fingers entwined together, elbows rested, and eyes sparkling against the sea-green ocean.

She froze when Edward appeared beside her, his lips sewed into a thin thread; eyes softened yet chaotic. "I-I'm sorry," she stuttered without thinking, revealing her plan. Yet, the handsome man remained a statue of nonchalance. She felt mesmerized by the reflection of the crystalline water against his startlingly bright irises.

"Sorry for what?" he inquired casually. "Leaving the afternoon dinner early?"

"No, I-I mean—well, about—"

"I haven't seen a bird in a long while." Edward gestured to two large white birds with long and slender necks, both floating on the water. Upon the dawning of the ship, they spread their exceedingly elongated wings and set off into the skies. "It reminds me of land."

She laughed despite the growing rawness in her chest. "Yes…"

"I know what you're doing," Edward suddenly commented, his voice deathly calm, "and I suppose you feel childish now?"

"Very much so," she whispered. "But I can't stand any of this." Her eyes flickered up to meet his, her own brown orbs glistening brightly; battling tears brewing at the corners. "You're a man—a wealthy one, at that!—and you'll never know how it is… to have people hold high expectations of you. People pushing you to sew your lips shut, and only obey… to have your mind cancelled out."

Edward titled his head, eyes all knowing. "I don't understand… but I can feel how much you loathe it."

"_Despise!_" Isabella spat, glaring into the ocean. "That seems a better word; a more _passionate _word."

Her heart skipped it a beat when he rested an assuring hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry for you." She opened her mouth to speak, but found her tongue twisted in a knot. He continued smoothly, "But you do realize how different you are from the rest of us? It runs in your blood. Your mother defied everything"—of course _everybody _would hear of that scandalous news—"and now it's your turn."

Isabella folded her arms across her chest, eyes glittering. "No… I can't. She was strong. She had a reason. I have no reason." Renee was in love, enough so to untangle the ropes holding her down. Isabella… was _ambitious_—dangerously so—coupled with being a young and foolish girl of early adulthood. A hazardous combination that is! And now, her womanly heart ached and pined for someone.

It would all end in chaos, she told herself solemnly.

"You think you're not strong?" Edward arched an eyebrow in blatant disbelief. "You, _Bella Swan_"—her eyes fluttered lovingly, unintentionally—"are clever, cunning, mischievous, compassionate, and charming… None of that is strong to you?"

"Well, when you explain it to me so daringly." She smiled in a humored fashion and playfully elbowed him. He let out a hearty laugh, but his cheeks stained an amusing red. She, in turn, breathed a small laugh. The early evening settled into a beautiful cloak of warmth and happiness. Even as the sun blazed against their skin and his hand held hers as they gazed out into the horizon, Isabella felt no sense of awe under his touch; no aching of the heart as his fingers stroked her…

… Because in that moment, she found a true _friend_.

* * *

Jasper weaved through the crowd. The day was still young, the sun still ablaze, and the sky still painted blue, yet Rosalie had already scurried off with a meager little excuse of, "It's too hot. I'll be in my room." The blue twinkling of her eyes gave way to her lie. Curious, he had finally decided to search for her after not finding her in her room, of course. And the search for the rose seemingly took hours—she was nowhere near of the popular areas, such as the _Turkish Bath_—which she gluttonously devoured her time with, primarily because it helped "eliminate the unattractive blotchiness of her complexion"—and the swimming pool, where she often modeled her voluptuous body.

This search ended the moment he stepped onto the stern of the boat and his eyes landed on the third class deck. Rosalie sat near the young man from days ago, the one she pined after, a girlish infatuation that Jasper had previously considered had ended. Yet, she caressed his cheek and leaned into him, loving gestures that the man immensely enjoyed… too much, in fact.

Too much for it to be a simple infatuation.

Enough to irritated Jasper.

He took a staggered step forward, but Rosalie, having spotted him, already sprinted up the steps, desperation on her face. After reaching him, they stood facing each other for several prolonged seconds of tension, before he grasped her arm and towed her away. From the corner of his eye, he saw her send an apologetic smile down at the man. Reckless idiot, she was.

"Why are you so cross with me?" Rosalie demanded agitatedly.

"You know precisely why," Jasper retorted haughtily, to which she rolled her eyes. Once reaching her room, adjacent his, he pushed her inside, closed the door behind them, and whipped around to gaze at her with flaming eyes. Alice, who had been fluffing the jewel-encrusted pillows of the Victorian-styled sofa, froze, blinking in puzzlement. Neither sibling acknowledged her presence, too preoccupied fuming.

"Are you in a relationship with that man?"

Rosalie's eyes narrowed indignantly, but her speech faltered as she spoke, "Yes—no, I—well, we… Jasper, you must understand…" She threw herself at him, clasping his hands in her grim and trembling ones. Her once hardened eyes failed to remain confident and cool. "I do care for him! Very much, I do! It's the first time I've ever… felt such passion and craving. He's everything I need and I've given him by heart!"

"You're a woman commanded by temporary obsession," Jasper snapped vehemently.

"How _dare_ you question my—"

"You're what?" Jasper intervened. "You're feelings? Rosalie Lillian Hale, you're being—"

"Oh, so now you take the tone of our father, using my entire name?"

Before either could pursue any more clipping insults of pure fury, Alice tentatively stepped forward, her hazel orbs careful. "I believe Miss Hale feelings are genuine and true, especially for some of such high-expectations of a man"—Rosalie scowled—"and Jasper, I believe you are simply being consumed by protectiveness, for your sister is your duty. I can't blame you from trying to save her from heartbreak."

"Or maybe I'm speaking with wisdom," Jasper retorted.

"Or stupidity," Rosalie murmured.

Alice grimaced under the heavy weight of annoyance between the two. "You're just bickering siblings."

"Yet my bickering is in the defense of my love!" Rosalie rounded once on Alice, dress flapping. "He's just a fool frightened by any form of emotion!"

"_Any form of emotion_," Jasper scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "I'm trying to explain to you that your feelings are just deluding you into thinking you're in love, and… well, people can't falling in love in less than a week!" He stomped his foot stubbornly.

"Who said I was _in_ love?" Rosalie frowned at him. "I love him, but I'm not _in _love with him…"

"What does that even mean?!" Jasper bellowed, blue eyes ablaze with puzzlement and irritation.

"Right now…," Rosalie began, near whispering to him, "Emmett and I are simply in the stages of love—the passion, the lust, the recklessness… But soon, and maybe it will take months, perhaps a year, but we'll be strengthened into something more—commitment, honesty… feelings so powerful that nothing could pull us a part. You can shake your head at me and project your voice for hours, but I'll never give up the idea, nor will I give up my heart."

She stared _into_ his eyes, her own glistening. "I don't care what you say or do, this is how I feel."

Jasper's taut back loosened, his shoulder slouching. Alice, who had been ringing her finger around the fabric of her skirt, wrinkling it, smiling thinly and eased down on the sofa, her legs crossed.

"Rosalie…"

"Jasper," Rosalie echoed mockingly.

"Rosalie," he continued, breathing a sigh, "I… I can accept what you mean… as long… as you're reasonable about it… and not too… fast-paced."

Her lips curled upward into a tremendous grin that illuminated the room. Throwing a grateful glance at Alice, she danced across the room in one fluid moment and wound her arms around her brother, him mimicking the notion. They stood in an iron embrace for several prolonged moments, their sibling love melting away the tension, when Rosalie breathed a loud sigh.

"I would like to tell you, brother, that Emmett and I are engaged…"

She hissed in pain when the arms around her tightened drastically, fingers digging into her back. Both girls cringed at the extremely ear-shattering shout that spilt through the air; probably shook the entire ship—hell, even the earth rattled with little earthquakes!

"_WHAT_?!"

* * *

Isabella glided down the deck. Although speaking with Edward was enormously consoling, the awkwardness emitting from both always created a deep void that didn't reassure her of any of her problems. The one person her mind drifted to could possibly be the most reassuring of all—Renee held no promise of understanding, Alice was too insightful for comfort, and no other came to mind.

Except him… Charlie Swan.

She recalled finding him on the ship. Initially, after near hyperventilating for hours, she had decided upon ignoring his presence and hoping to God that Renee would never accidentally run into him: the result would be a whirlwind of chaos that no one would have predicted. Yet, in the moment of vulnerable Isabella found herself caught in, her heart reacted to him—reaching for him, crying for him… her true and only father. It wasn't necessary to tell him that she was, in fact, his daughter; that could come later, perhaps minutes before the ship docked in a few days.

After asking several officers—seeing as Charlie Swan was First Officer—, she found him lingering near the front deck, examining the railing. Ocean mist sprayed into the air. Children and men and women of first class chatted boisterously; well, the children, the boys, danced and played and argued barbarically with one another. The younger girls watched longingly from the distance.

Isabella steered away from the raw image and strolled up behind Charlie. Lightly, she tapped him on the shoulder, to which he turned on his heel, a tender smile plastered to his kind face, despite the aging of it; the hollowed dark eyes, cracks creasing in his skin.

"Can I help you, miss?"

He didn't recognize her from before, and although it wasn't shocking, Isabella found herself feeling… neglected. _I'm your daughter! _she wanted to scream at him, but appropriately restrained herself and smiled politely in return.

"Yes, I… well…"

Okay, randomly seeking advice from a complete stranger—well, technically, seeing as they knew nothing of each other—wasn't the brightest of ideas. And with a start, she realized that she _had _to tell him; to inform him that she was his daughter, the one he didn't no exist. Biting her bottom lip, she breathed unevenly as she spoke to him, "I must tell you something… in private. Oh, and I'm Isabella… Higginbotham."

Charlie's eyes hardened at the last name, understanding full well of her being Renee's daughter, and probably thinking her as Phil's child, too. Although suspicion laced with his expression, he nodded curtly, saying, "Well, we can go to the deck's private lounge. No one is using it at the moment."

Nodding, she followed him across the deck and down the open hall, the sun pooling down, before they entered a small room of wood-paneled floor, several tables, and sofas, and massive green plants rooted in enormous pots. Despite the sunny area and tranquility of the room, her hearty beat wildly to its own rhythm. Charlie faced her, fingers flexing apprehensively.

"I need to inform you of… something…"

"Yes."

With a deep sigh, she began with a story he probably didn't want to remember.


End file.
